Condemned
by Wizadora123
Summary: Condemned to life in the Pit, a young girl finds refuge with a mysterious man; but when faced with the brutal realities of life in the worst hell on Earth, it becomes apparent that things are not always as they first seem. A tale of love, struggle and redemption. Pre-TDKR, Nolanverse, BanexOC. Some graphic violence in later chapters, mild use of language- more info inside. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1: Into The Abyss

**AN: Thanks for stopping by, dear reader!**

**A little info on what you're about to read:**

_**'Condemned to life in the Pit, a young girl finds refuge with a mysterious man. But when faced with the brutal realities of life in the worst hell on Earth, it becomes apparent that things are not always as they appear to be.'**_

**Pre-TDKR, Nolanverse**

**developing BanexOFC (unnamed character, first-person narrative)**

**WARNINGS: Some graphic violence in later chapters, mild use of language. Minor sexual themes.**

**Rating: T**

**...**

_"No," I say, taking his hand in mine and fighting with the loosened tubes of his intricate mask. A cruel thicket of bullets puncture his broad chest as the life leaks from him, thick and crimson and uncontrollably fast, and I press my hands up against the wounds but he groans in agony and it's too late, too late, always too late. Time has finally evaded us._

_I'm crying now, saying his name over and over, lost and alone at the end of all things._

_"I don't know what to do, Bane, I don't know what to do-!"_

_Silently his large hand shivers up against my own, pulling it gently away from the mask welded to his face. His crumpled fingers, tired and calloused in ways only the two of us know, begin to work at the clasp at the base of his skull. Realising what he's doing, I protest through my tears, but he looks at me in a way which makes me understand. He releases the mask and I cup the front of it in my hands so that it may not fall; Bane clasps his hands over mine and casts the mask away from us. We lower our hands and there, beautiful and marble and far too good for the likes of the filth of humanity is the face of Bane; my Bane at last with his soft, gentle lips and his eyes, those eyes full of hatred and love and every other emotion I have ever experienced towards the human race personified in the cool brown of those gentle lenses. _

_"You can't," I tell him, watching as he wheezes horridly from the pain of just existing, and I bring my hands either side of his face and just hold him there, weeping uncontrollably as I feel his hot blood weep into the fibres of my clothes, causing the thin material to plaster our bodies together as his muscles begin to shake of their own accord._

_"No," I say, holding him. _

_"Look," he whispers, so calm and controlled. I follow his voice and find my way into those eyes, stung by long forgotten tears and struggling, fighting so hard against the horrors of the world._

_"Look," he says again as I sob, eyes clenching without my guidance, as I press my forehead against his own because I'm not strong enough, I cannot do this. This shouldn't be real. _

_His hand comes up through the tangle of my hair and it holds my neck; then he says my name, that precious whisper in the dark of the world that, just for a second, makes it all seem okay, and it's like the world synchronizes, as though the blood and the agony, the gunfire and the flame about to engulf us all is gone, gone just for that precious second as our lips press together for the final time. I hold him there, refusing to let go, long after his body has fallen limp._

_Bane is gone._

_My Bane is... _

_dead._

**~oOo~**

**Chapter One:**

**Into the Abyss**

"Please," I beg in the home tongue of the men, "Please, you can't!"

My grasp of their language is very limited, but it's clear by their reply that I'll find no favor with them.

One man holds each of my arms, and a third begins to fashion a knot from a ragged rope and loop it securely around my waist, so tight i can feel it burning into my skin.

Tears prick my eyes; this is easily the most terrifying experience of my life, even more so than what I am condemned to this living hell for.

"Please, no!" I scream, beginning to feel faint underneath the beating desert sun, eyes blurred by the flush of water within them, then cry "no, please!"; variations of the two spurting desperately from my lips as I fight against the three soldiers.

"You can't!" I scream in my own language, "no, you can't do this! I did nothing! I saw _nothing_!"

But my pleas for mercy come too late- the two officers holding me drag me to the edge of the well-like structure, holding me tightly even as I struggle and pray for some kind of mercy, be it through the hand of God or anyone else.

Their leader stands in front of me, looks me dead in the eyes and mutters some words to me in a language I can't understand. I make out nothing but my name. The man stands back, looks to either of his men and I feel the grip on my forearms tighten.

"No, no, no!" I scream, throwing every vow, plea for mercy and promise I can at the three men, burning with shame at how pathetic i must look. Pull yourself together, some stronger part of me says, but the adrenaline and sheer absurdity of the situation I've been flung into diminish those thoughts like a candle in a thunderstorm.

I feel myself being tipped slowly backwards and begin to scream; by some miracle their leader calls to them and I'm pulled forwards to firm ground.

_is this happening? they're not going to-?_

Relief floods me and I thank the man in a groveling manner, uncontrollable tears streaming ribbons down my cheeks; he steps forwards and reaches a hand out to me. The hand finds my collar and slips underneath the metallic chain around my neck, which holds a semi-precious gemstone- some kind of quartz, If i remember. Confused, I go to speak, but before I can there's a sharp jab of pain as he tugs the chain, breaking a link and stealing it from my flustered neck. Too aghast to speak, I frown for a second as he examines the necklace, before waving his hand around the stagnant air dismissively; the two lesser officers holding me proceed to tip me from the edge again. I scream even more, terror pumping through my veins and merging with the adrenaline, fighting to get them off with my arms whilst trying my best to keep my dragging feet from leaving the dusty desert ground. Without warning the ground leaves me and I am falling; only for a millisecond, but the jolt inside me makes it feel like a lifetime. I cling to the threadbare rope tied around my waist as though it were the most precious thing on the planet, when only moments ago I'd been desperately trying to rid myself of it. I look ahead of me to find my face only inches from the rough stone wall. Looking up, I find I'm barely a meter or so below the rim of the pit- I reach up for it with one hand, tears blurring my vision, but it's no use. My hand soon returns to grasp to the rope as the line begins to be lowered, to descend into the blackness of the pit.

I then make the most stupid mistake I possibly could-

I risk a glance downwards.

As I look, I see nothing but the solid black, never-ending.

Eternal.

I look back up, watching with wet eyes as the light of the sun begins to turn from me, casting shadows over my face and along the crumbling walls. It seems to go on forever. Man's Damnation, I'd heard it called by some, the Eternal Fire by others. Hell on Earth, Home of Demons... the list was as never-ending as the abyss itself. And as the last few seconds of my freedom are stolen from me, I do nothing but concentrate on that dimming sun, savoring its sweet light.

My feet land against the hard ground quicker than I'd expected. Even through my light sandals, I can feel its sharp pang through me, sparking a pain up through the backs of my ankles. I try my hardest to climb the rope out of sheer desperation, but just as I get a firm footing it is released and I shoot back to the ground, causing both my ankles to click painfully. The silhouettes of the three officers disappear over the edge of the abyss; my pitiful cries for release die within minutes, and I gradually become aware of a hushed mumbling. Slowly, I turn myself from the wall of the chamber and look out to see a sea of men of all ages, all wearing peasant's rags, many with unshaven faces and hollowed cheeks.

I stare at them, dumbstruck, and they stare back.

Behind them I can see less interested men moving in the ant-like structure of the prison, drooped shoulders swaying as they move around with loads on their backs. A fight seems to have broken out in one corner, but no-one pays it any attention; everyone is too focused on me.

Neither side speaks. Some of the men look at me with mild interest, some with confusion, others still with a sickening gaze I can only describe as hunger.

It is then I realize; they already have me sized up. A weak little girl, terrified and confused. I curse myself for begging the escorting officers for release earlier.

_Man up._

I know that I have to show myself to be stronger than that, in order to get by in this place, if this pit really is to be my forever. Stand my ground, make the first move. Show them that I am not afraid, regardless of how I feel inside.

I harden my stance and raise my head, clutching my fingers to stop them shaking. As I am forming the right words to say in my head, I notice movement in the back of the crowd. It distracts me from my thoughts, and in a moment the figure is at the front of the group. I frown at the face for a moment, hidden by layers of a burlap-type fabric. He doesn't halt at the front, however, just continues towards me. I take a half-step back, ready for defensive speech, but in less than a second he is upon me and has me lifted by the waist, kicking and screaming in both my language and his, and throws me briskly over his shoulder. I curse at him in both out native tongues, beating my fists against his muscular back, desperate for release. None of the other prisoners so much as move, and as I grow more desperate I feel my eyes start to bleed again with salty tears.

"Put me down, Let me go!" I roar, aiming for the man's covered head as he jostled me up a crumbling flight of stairs. At the top of it, I can make out a ring of cells circling the open orifice, and the man carries me roughly down the curving corridor, passing several men as he goes, some in cells, others walking outside of them.

"Help!" I scream at each of them, and although chances are they cannot understand my foreign cry, that gives no credit to the fact they do nothing. At the end of one strip of cells, the man carrying me paws in his pockets and draws out a brass key, greening like copper and dented from years of use. He heads to the barred door of the second cell from the right, digs the key into the lock and struggles with it for a moment as it gets stuck. I try to use this opportunity to escape, striking at him with all four of my limbs, but he merely shuffles me along the blades of his shoulders as to get a better grip. Panicked, I give another shrill scream as the door clicks open, then the man carries me inside, still screaming horribly, utter panic taken over. In a second I find myself flung down on a low cot of a bed, and the man heads back to the doors of his cell and moves to lock them, the key proving difficult again. I suss him out; he's got to be at least a good three stone heavier than me on pure muscle, and his height serves to be quite intimidating. Strength-wise, I stand no chance. So, instead, I take the last few seconds left to search the room for a close-range weapon. I don't have the chance to grab something before the lock clicks. I spring to my feet as the man faces back to me.

"Don't touch me," I snarl in English, and then say "no," demanding it in his own tongue, hoping this will give him the message.

The man approaches slowly and I back father up, the backs of my knees touching the wood of the prison cot.

My speech turns into mindless babble and my heart thuds blindingly as he gets closer, his large form shadowing my own. I raise my hands in defense screeching something between a plea and an insult. His hands clamp either side of my shoulders and he pushes down on them so that I'm forced in a sitting position on the bed.

_No,_ I think resiliently, attempting to stand, but his grip is too firm and he simply shoves me down again. I wrap my forearms over his, trying to keep him away, still shouting at him desperately.

"This would be a lot simpler," he says, his voice smooth, "if you'd just calm down."

I stop struggling a moment, surprised that he speaks my language. His speech sounds utterly natural, not learned, and the accent seems familiar. My grip on his forearms stays tight, and I watch him, breath heavy and eyes wide, as he lowers himself in front of me. Hands still on my shoulders, he bends to one knee before the cot and slowly lifts his hands from my skin.

My eyes lock onto his as he reaches for the fabric covering the top of his head. Slowly, as if he is dealing with a frightened animal, he removes the cloth, his other hand raised in a delicate manner. A head of mid-brown hair is revealed, cropped short but still sticking out unruly at the sides and the crown. The hand moves to the bandanna before and he tugs it down to reveal his face.

I stare, surprised by what I see. I had been expecting the face of a hungry predator, harsh and rough, but instead I'd been met with this; young, soft features, only his jawline betraying this conformity. Stubble grazes his high cheekbones, and equally highly arched eyebrows frame his dark eyes, which now look demanding and alert rather than dangerous.

We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, before he finally seems to decide I'd calm. He stands and turns his back on me, shrugging off his threadbare coat to reveal muscular arms. His physique isn't... enormous, but his form is definitely not one to be trifled with, either. I sit completely still as he moves around the small room, shuffling things around for no apparent reason, running his hand through his hair twice before turning back to me. We stare at each other again.

"What do you want?" I managed eventually, my voice judgmental.

"Oh, that's nice," he says, an uninvited laugh taking prestige in his voice. He turns his back on me again and grabs hold of two of the cell bars. "I save you from a rabble of rapists and generally unsavory folk and the best you can manage is to start questioning me. A simple _'thank you'_ would have sufficed."

I can tell there is a trace of unspiteful humor engraved in his voice, but remain wary.

"You speak English," I say, expressing my surprise, though it sounds almost accusing.

"Yes," he states, "as do you."

_Smart mouth,_ I think, then look at him again. He is still facing the outside of the cell, flexing his muscles against the bars. I have to stop myself from staring at them in intimidated awe.

"Hungry?" He asks, and as if on cue there's a sharp pang in my stomach. I take a second before nodding; then I realize he can't see me and clear my throat.

"Yes," I manage after a couple of choked attempts, and he moves his hand to the door. Pulling the key from out of his pocket, he jabs it in the lock and opens the cell. He turns and throws the key to me.

Still on the defensive, the simple motion shocks me and I miss it- it lands with a clatter on the stone floor.

"Lock yourself in," says the man, stepping out into the curved stone corridor.

I pick the key up from where it has landed and watch him walk away before standing to do as he said. I push the jagged bronze into the lock and twist it awkwardly, creating a safe barrier between myself and the men of the prison. I stand still for a few minutes, waiting for my heart to stop racing, and eventually turn back to the room and give it a glance over.

Two cots, pushed up against each other to make one double bed. Several cardboard boxes stacked upon each other to act as a dressing table, upon which stands two books, a wooden bowl, two spatula-like utensils and a Stanley knife. At the back of the cell is a rag of fabric draped across a sill, and I pull it back curiously to see a dug-out area, at the back of which is a toilet.

_Nock nock._

I turn to see the young man, one arm against the bars, the other holding a wooden bowl filled with some sort of porridge. He looks at me expectantly, and I watch his eyes with caution.

"Not going to let me in?" He says after a few moments.

I glance at him and then at the key, which is still in my grasp.

"No." I say finally, taking a step back.

"My own cell," he says to himself with a shake of the head, and then, "don't you trust me?"

I shake my own head wearily.

He exhales and nods, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

"Alright."

He slumps to the floor with his back against the bars of the cell.

"I' suppose I'll just eat this to myself then."

My stomach rumbles again.

"And seeing as you plan on staying in there forever, I suppose you'll just have to starve slowly to death."

He has a point.

"You... you wouldn't let me starve," I say, thinking afterwards that it sounds more like a question than the statement is was supposed to be.

The man turns his head back and catches my gaze.

"Try me."

"I..."

I know nothing about this man, and he may have forcefully carried me off to his den- but he is the only person here so far who has shown me any sort of kindness, saving me from whatever horrors would have befell me with the rest of the men.

_Plus,_ I think, _he has food,_ which doesn't stand to his disadvantage.

I stand and put the key in the lock. He copies my movement on cue and comes back inside, taking the key and re-locking the door behind us. He pours half of the porridge mix into the wooden bowl on the make-shift table and hands it to me, along with one of the wooden spatulas. I take it quietly, and watch as he places his own down before grabbing the end of one of the low beds and dragging it to the other side of the room, creating a causeway between the two. He gestures for me to sit on the one to my left and he takes the right.

Sat opposite each other, both of us begin to eat the grey porridge water. I awkwardly dip the spatula into the gloop and try to lift some onto it, but it simply slips away. I do the same again, grimacing at the unsightly mixture, but fail once more. I give a quick glance up at the mystery man to see if I am somehow doing it wrong, but he is using exactly the same method, only for him it's working.

"You'll get used to that," he says without looking up, just as I manage to get some on the spatula. I carefully lift it to my mouth and take it in; it's cold and bland, the texture as unpleasant as its grayish colour.

I suck in my cheeks a little to try to stop it swishing around, my expression clearly one of disdain.

"You'll get used to that, too," says the man through a stifled chuckle.

Half a bowl of grey porridge later and neither of us had said a word in at least 20 minutes- it is definitely not the easiest dish to swallow. I work words around in my mouth between the flecks of porridge, eventually settling on three of them.

"What's your name?" I ask quietly, looking up over the wooden bowl at him. He looks at me for a second as though he thinks I was asking someone else, then realizes the question must be for him, and he mutters something not quite distinguishable enough through a mouthful of mush.

"Kane?" I say, "like Cain and Abel?"

He shakes his head and swallows, rolling the fingers of his unoccupied hand.

"With a 'B'."

I think on it a moment, but no names come to mind. At least not any I've ever heard.

"...'Bane'?" I try, half-joking.

He nods without so much as looking up, taking up another scoop of porridge skilfully on his eating utensil.

I nod as well, wondering if he's having me on. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "Unusual."

"And yours?" He asks, and I tell him my name.

"Also unusual," he says, and I tilt my head questioningly.

"At least for these parts of the world," he explains. I nod along with him.

There is more silence, then he glances at me again.

"So why are you in here?" He asks.

I swallow hard, not just the ill-made porridge making me sick now.

"I saw something I shouldn't have seen," I respond, leaving the answer as vague as possible.

The man- Bane- doesn't push the subject. He leaves it a few minutes before stating,

"You killed a man."

I look up at him in surprise.

"No I didn't," I say bluntly.

"Yes, you did," he corrects. "That's what you are to tell anyone who asks. In fact, you killed two men. Stabbed them both because they murdered your father."

He nods to himself, pleased with his story.

My father is alive and quite well, I know- well, up until a few weeks ago. What if something has happened to the people I love back home, and I'm stuck down here with no way of knowing?!

"Physically you are not the most imposing character," the man- Bane, I remind myself- drawls. "You're less likely to be harassed, if they think you're more than capable of looking after yourself."

_I am, _I think, but then brush aside that thought as foolishness. After all, without this man- this stranger- where would I be now? I hate to think of it. Instead I agree with the man.

"Okay," I say, and he nods in approval.

"Bedtime for you, I think," he says, putting his empty bowl on the cardboard-box tower.

Still slightly mistrustful of the man, I watch him for a moment until he speaks.

"Well, are you not tired?" He asks, and I give it some thought- yes, I'm shattered. In fact, it's been three nights since I actually slept solidly- four days of train travel in handcuffs surrounded by heavily-armed men shouting at me in words I can't understand hardly bodes for the most comfortable setting. Then again, the prison environment isn't exactly better.

"Then go to sleep," he instructs, lying down on top of his own bed and turning to face the wall. I feel glad of this, as it means I can watch him without suspicion.

"Goodnight," he says finally, letting out a yawn that catches onto me. My eyes water as it does, and I curl my flowing skirt slightly higher so I can use it as a blanket.

I feel grateful for the heavy gypsy skirt they issued me the day my fate was decided. It's cool in the cell, as opposed to the heat of the main ring where the dying sun shines down. I look out through the shaded columns to see the pit, still filled with men bustling left and right, now having a dull orange glow. I sit like that for a few minutes, just watching the prison. A few men pass by the cell, those who bother to look in staring in surprise as they realized it is inhabited by a woman. One man gives a sickening wink- by the looks of him he is old enough to have been my father twice over. These worrying glances are what cause me to discern that sleep would be the best option. I lie flat against the modest cot, my head tilted towards the man with the strange name.

_'A simple thank you would have sufficed.'_

I dwell on this for a while, and then,

"Uh... Bane?"

He gives a half-drowsy groan of acknowledgement.

"Thank you," I say, and he gives a similar groan, his breathing slowly developing into a snore as he falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2: Sacred

**Chapter Two:**

**Sacred**

When I awake, it is surprisingly gracefully. I have somehow survived the night without a single nightmare, without any screams or heart-racing moments, and actually feel the satisfaction of refreshment. Still half in limbo, I keep my eyes firmly shut and the top skirt layer held snugly around my neck, creating a cocoon of warmth which I feel I may never be able to leave. As the sounds of the world begin to rouse me, however, my location and circumstances gradually come back to me- upon remembrance, I sit almost bolt-upright, instantly alert, the peace of my sleep broken.

Swinging my head left and right, I find my saviour sat in exactly the same position as he had been yesterday- on the edge of his bed, facing me, and eating a bowl of badly-made porridge.

"Afternoon," he says, scratching his head with the back of his hand and taking another gulp of sludge.

"Slept well, I trust?"

"Mm-hmm," I say, not quite adjusted to proper speech. "What time is it?"

"Gone twelve o'clock," he says, "the sun's passed over now. We never know the proper time- not unless your stood over the sun dial in the hofra, which I'm not."

"In the what?" I ask, having no idea what that word meant.

"The 'Hofra,'" he repeats, "it means 'pit.' That's what we call the middle of the prison."

I glance down to the centre of the cavern- on a raised podium to the left of the ring stands a tall sun dial, chipped and worn, made from some sort of stone. By its abused condition and reddish colour, I assume the material is sandstone. Shadows on its surface dictate the hour to anyone bothered enough to care.

"I suppose knowing the time down here doesn't really make much difference anyway," I say sadly, and he nods.

"Only makes it pass slower," he agrees, then hands the half-eaten bowl to me and rises.

"Eat up," he says.

"Yum yum," I frown sarcastically.

"It's not all bad," he says, "once a month we get a drop-off. It can get brutal sometimes if people go for more than their fair share, but on the months everyone plays by the rules it's good. Fresh fruit, vegetables. Sometimes meat- those months the fighting is at it's worse. Then your boring stuff, like grain, flour, rice... these damn porridge oats..."

I smile and he reflects it. I scoop some of the watered-down rice onto the spatula and it droops off sadly, as if just to support the man's comment.

"No chocolate, then?" I say, and he laughs slightly, beginning to move around papers and fold dirty clothing.

"You'd be surprised," he says. "You see, when a bloke gets put in here, the first thing that happens to him is they get accosted by a load of the guys here. Basically, they take whatever you have to offer. You trade your goods for your relative safety. Most guys bring knives; think everyone'll want one."

"Don't the guards take stuff like that off them?"

"They don't care what you bring in, so long as it never comes back out."

I nod and Bane continues.

"Thing is, that many guys bring knives that everyone's sick of seeing the damn things. There's more knives around this place than there are things to use them on. Most guys who bring knives now tend to get the crap beaten out of them- if you'll pardon my French.

"So, the clever guys bring other stuff. Stuff that we really want down here- string, needles, shaving foam. Soap, bandages, sugar. Any little luxuries like that, things that might make life down here a little more bearable. And, most importantly, booze. "

"It's a good job you grabbed me when you did, then," I say. "I haven't got any of that, not even a knife."

There's a quiet moment, and I realise immediately what he's trying to find the words for.

"I suppose they wouldn't have minded too much," I input before he can say it. A dark tension fills the air and I realise just how grateful I am to this man.

"what happens to the guys who don't bring anything?" I ask curiously, trying to disband the thickening in the air.

"They don't tend to last long," Bane explains.

"So what did you bring?" I ask.

There's a long pause, then he smiles.

"Chocolate, of course."

I nod and he frowns to himself.

"…and knives."

I snort with laughter, almost spraying watered down porridge across the room. He shakes his head and within seconds the pair of us are laughing senselessly.

Over the next two days I find I adapt quite well to prison life. I haven't left the cell since Bane brought me in here three days ago, but that doesn't concern me much- this room has become my cage of safety within this cage of imprisonment.

Bane has only left the cell to get food- the longest he's been gone has been about an hour. I find I'm still wary of him, but the silences between the two of us are comfortable when they arise- there is a mutual understanding of there being no need to talk a lot of the time. He spends a lot of his time doing press-ups on the floor, or strengthening his arms further with the aid of a bar suspended from the ceiling, to which I most certainly do not avert my eyes. I feel an odd need to touch his biceps, wondering if they can really be as strong as they seem. A lot of the time I think he forgets I'm actually here.

The other prisoners have pretty much left me alone so far. At one point yesterday, whilst Bane had disappeared for lunch, a man had stood the other side of the bars, just staring at me. I had felt incredibly uncomfortable, and had resolved to fake sleep until Bane returned. The man had stayed another ten minutes or so, without saying a word, before I'd finally heard his footsteps disappear. When more footsteps approach a few minutes later I worried he might have returned, but when I looked up I saw it to be Bane, his arms wrapped either side of the bars.

"Nock nock," he says with a boisterous smile, just like he had on that first day.

"Who's there?" I reply.

"Bane."

"Bane who?" I ask, and for a moment I wonder if I might get an answer this time.

However, he leaves off there. He beckons me towards the bars and I scoop the key from the cardboard tower as I move. It takes a good five minutes, perhaps longer, to finally get the rusted lock to yield.

A couple of hours later, the pair of us are sat in our usual positions on our separate beds. I glance about at the papers and have the sudden urge to go exploring. It would be rude to rifle through his papers, though- so I decide I'll do it next time he leaves the cell for a long while.

Then a question comes to mind which I can't shake off.

Bane sits with one of the coverless books from the table on his lap, open about half way through. Its pages are worn and speckled, it's exposed spine splintering, but regardless of it's dishevelled state he looks most engrossed. I don't want to disturb him, so leave him to his reading. But the more I think about it, the more I want to ask. After twenty itching minutes, I can resist the urge no longer.

"Why did you do it?" I ask, my voice sounding weak from lack of use.

"Hmm?"

I try to think of a way to word what I'm trying to express. "Save me, I mean."

Bane's eyes shift above the book a moment, barley landing a second on my own. He shrugs, exhales, and then gives me an answer.

"You needed saving," he concludes, then indulges himself back into his book.

I think about persuing the matter futher, but come to realise I'm quite satisfied with just that.

"What are you reading?" I ask a while later, and his brow unfurrows from concentration a moment.

"The Torah," he states, turning another thin-leaved page.

"You're... Jewish?" I ask in surprise, and he laughs softly.

"No," he explains. "There aren't many books available- Holy ones are some of the few permitted; they give people hope, and that's the whole point of this prison. There's a Bible and a Quran over there, as well. I've read them all twice. Interesting. Very interesting."

I crane my neck to get a look at the yellowed pages, curious as to the writing. I recognise the calligraphic swoop of the Hebrew language and am amazed.

"You read Hebrew?" I say, watching as he traces his finger across the page and nods.

"Where did you learn?"

I sense a sudden irritation that I'm pulling him from his study, but he answers me all the same, albeit vague.

"I've travelled."

I look at the pages again, not wanting to disturb the man. Amongst the spidery black ink are tiny pencil scratching, letters and words and symbols scrawled into margins, lines and loops highlighting words. I want to ask about these, too, but feel I've disrupted his study enough. I ask him no more questions, simply sit and watch him read a little more. His intelligence is clear on his face- I'd known before that he was clever by his actions and mannerisms, but looking at him now brings home the fact.

He seems quite the aesthete, regardless of what his strengthly apperance might lead one to believe. The way he looks at the pages, as though he understands every word- not just their letters and sounds but their meanings, when stringed together through sentence and paragraph, chapter and verse. As though he is reading from the perspective of the person whom himself wrote those words many hundreds of years ago. It's a quite beautiful sight, if a strange one, to see such understanding on a man's features.

I hope to see it again.

**AN: well, guys, hope you liked :)**

**i wanted to get across Bane's intelligence and focus in this chapter. as those of you who have re-read chapter one will know, there have been alterations to the story and to the narrative. check out the author's note at the bottom of chapter one for more info :)**

**I HAVE A QUESTION FOR YOU. i'm seriously considering not giving the female character a name. Thoughts?**

**thanks so much for reading, hope you're enjoying it so far :D**

**and a big thank you to everyone who's read this- it's my first story and the tears of joy that people actually like it is phenomenal. I looked at the views and it's nearly 500 in 2 days, which for me is stunalicious (not a word, but it's the only expression worthy of my gratitude) ! :O **

**lots of love, R&R! 3**


	3. Chapter 3: Screams In The dark

**I'M A WIZARD.**

**i lied, i'm just a Muggle. but i thought that'd grab your attention. **

**now please, dear friends, go forth and (hopefully) enjoy these 1,272 words of Bane-filled joy (i'm sorry that it's so short, i promise i'll kick my ass in gear D:)**

**Chapter Three:**

**Screams in the Dark**

Another day passes in much the same way- filled with porridge and small conversation and holy texts. As the sun sets over the cavern, men begin to drift into corners or back to cells. Two men approach the cell bars and signal for me to wake Bane, who is lying still with a book lay open beside his thigh. I doubt he's actually asleep, and when he sits up without persuasion, this is confirmed. He stretches over to the bars and the three of them mumble in a foreign tongue, before Bane hands them something through the bars from the inside of his shirt. Though I wonder in my mind, I decide not to ask what it was.

Bane lies back down on his bed, bidding me a good night though it is only late afternoon. When I am certain he is asleep, his breathing soft, I carefully remove the book from beside his thigh and leaf open one of its delicate pages. I find that this one is in fact an ancient bible, with scuffed gold-shined binding and dog-eared, papyrus-like pages.

This text is also covered with scribbles and markings, and I try my best to work them out- I catch the odd word, but begin to wonder if the majority of the text is in another language. The markings are very analytical, and cover almost every millimetre of spare paper to spare, the margins and headings filled, footers spilling over onto new pages. I read a few verses of Revelation, where the page falls open, leafing through a few pages until something catches my eye. An Arabic word scrawled in the margin;

'حفرة'

I decide to read the verse beside it, and almost scoff at its relevance;

_'The fifth Angel blew his trumpet. And I saw a star that had fallen from heaven to the Earth, and the key of the Abyss was given to him._

_And he opened the pit of the Abyss, and smoke ascended out of the pit as the smoke of a great furnace; and the sun was darkened, also the air, by the smoke of the pit. _

_And in those days, the men will seek death but will by no means find it, and they will desire to die but death keeps fleeing from them.'_

I shut the book then, a sickened feeling rising in my stomach. I may not have understood the text in a Biblical sense, but applied to my own situation…

Is that really what is to become of me? That I will wish death upon myself?

Is that how Bane feels right now?

I sit for a few minutes, dwelling on these revelations.

Then it occurs to me that I have not yet discovered the writings of the various papers scattered about the small cell. Curious, I creep to my feet and move about the room until I find a sheet. The hubaloo of the outside now is nearly dead, I recognise as I turn the page to its filled side. I'm surprised by what I see.

Rather than reams of letters like the ones in his books, these papers of Bane's are each filled with drawings- the first I come across is the face of an ageing man, with one misty eye and a solemn face. Although the proportion is slightly off facially, the shading work is immaculate, giving depth to the image. Each wrinkle and line is thickly shaded so as they prop themselves above the page like mountains.

The second I find it takes me a few minutes to place- as I turn, however, I realise it is the view from the cell bars. The bars themselves have not been drawn, instead the scene before them has cancelled the things out. I suppose Bane himself has drawn these- they are excellent. Without anything to do, though, I suppose one can truly home in on their skills and develop them, within reason.

I hear a light coughing sound and dismiss it at first as being Bane. But a few seconds later, another's voice gives a clear and very purposeful clearing of the throat, and I turn to see a man stood outside the bars.

His face grazed by lengthy stubble, it is impossible to truly determine his age. Not only that, but the light of the setting sun casts shadows which fall on him heavily. He waves his hand in the air and mutters something in broken English which I don't quite catch, and I assume he wants Bane. Without properly thinking I place a hand over the man's broad right shoulder and give it a light shake, saying his name quietly. I can't help but marvel at the contouring muscle beneath his skin. Bane shudders slightly, and as I look back up the man at the cell doors gives an uneasy look then moves away. I stare at the space where he stood in confusion.

"What is it?" Mumbles the sleepy Bane, flexing his arm behind his head.

"Some guy wanted to see you, but he just walked off," I say apologetically.

Bane's brow furrows and he stands, sleep fading quickly from him. He walks to the bars, muttering under his breath, and presses his face up against them.

He catches a glimpse of the back of the man who is still walking away, then begins to cry out in Arabic, words I don't understand but are given a sinister tone.

"Ignore them," Bane says to me, his voice hardened by anger.

He bangs his hand once against the metal, seemingly frustrated. Simultaneously there are a couple of shouts from other cells of what I presume to be along the lines of 'shut up, I'm trying to sleep.'

He shouts something defensive back, takes a step backwards and exhales loudly.

"Sorry for waking you," I whisper, quite scared by his attitude. He shrugs lightly.

"Go to sleep."

I nod without question and he lies back down, but even by the light of the blackening sunset I can tell his eyes are open, glistening in the semi-darkness.

That night is the first night I am woken by my own screams. It seems that after four days of relative peace my time is up, and the shuddering cold sweats return. I try to calm myself down, assuring myself of the light from the moon glowing down over the complex.

_Just a dream. It was just a dream._

I realise I'm crying, tears of genuine distress streaming my face. I wipe them away with the backs of my hands, and in turn wipe them onto one of the folds of my skirt.

There's movement beside me. I look over to see Bane sat upright, facing me like he always seems to. His hands are clasped in front of him, his eyes looking across to me. I give him a weak smile through the darkness, and he reaches his hand out in response, placing it on my forearm.

"Go to sleep," he says, his features highlighted in the pallid moonlight.

I move a hand across the bones of my collar, shivering.

"Lie down," he says comfortingly, and I give a small nod and follow his advice, burying back beneath my skirt again. My breathing is still faltered, but the hand on my arm is surprisingly calming. A few minutes later, Bane begins to ease his thumb backwards and forwards across the inner of my wrist in a circular motion. The light touch is almost hypnotic, and I find myself weaning back into sleep paralysis. As I finally drift off, Bane's comforting touch remains at my side.

**So yeah... less Bane than i thought i'd written in this chapter. **

**But don't worry, cupcakes and gentlemen. there will be plenty more Bane in the next chapter.**

**Also blood.**

**But mostly Bane.**

**Thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read my little story, both here and on Deviantart (if you're on DA, come and find me and we can fangasm over Bane and other things together :3)**

**thank ye again! remember to R&R! lots of love! 3**


	4. Chapter 4: The Climb

**AN:****_ Bhee!_**

**hello, ladies and gentlefolk. so, i think it's about time we throw some punches around, don't you? grrr.**

**Chapter Four: **

**The Climb**

The following morning comes quickly. I'm awoken sharply by the sound of a clear shout from outside. I try to get back to sleep, but the jeers and cat-calls continue, depriving me of the pleasure.

I sit up, stretch and realise I'm alone.

Dizzy from sleep, I stumble over to the bars to see if I can catch a glimpse of what all the noise is about; or maybe where Bane is.

I look down into the main hub of the prison to see a cluster of men have gathered- at least half of the prison, I guess- and are standing in an off-circle around an enormous man who is crouched low on the floor. His fists are pounding heavily into the ground and it takes me a good few seconds to realise there's someone underneath him.

One arms sticks out from underneath the hulking mass of man, rigid as to block the onslaught. I stare for a second until it hits me.

I don't quite know how I recognise it just by one steadfast arm, but I suddenly know that it's Bane under there. The men around chant something excitedly, and I spring into action. I rip across the room and grab the key from the table, then grab for the most offensive weapon within the cell- unfortunately, this happens to be one of the spatulas.

Not having time to change tactics or think straight, I jam the key roughly into the lock and desperately twist it, glancing worriedly at the fight- Bane has somehow made it back to his feet, red covering his face and hands, fists clenched tightly as though he was asking for more. His well-built frame pales in comparison to that of the second man, who could easily pass for a true fairy-tale giant- his stance is that of the Nephilim, all muscle and brute force with nothing held back.

The giant takes a swing at Bane and he just manages to slide out of the way, the impact being delivered instead to a spectator foolish enough to get too close. Bane throws in one hit, but isn't able to dodge the one he receives in retaliation. The pure size of the other man throws him off, and as he tries to regain his balance he's knocked to the floor again.

The lock finally clicks and I force open the door, ramming down the line of cells, without knowing the way to the pit- down is all that comes into my head. I run past several bemused-looking prisoners, one of whom grabs my shoulder and mutters something in a humoured voice- I break him off furiously and continue to dart through the ant-like city until I come to a flight of stairs and then another, grateful to at last have heeded to the ground. I look over to the crowd, still running as quickly as possible, and see the backs of many of them. I ram straight into the man at the back, who turns sharply, looking furious. I dart past him and then weave in and out of the others, until eventually they see my coming onslaught and part voluntarily.

When the crowd finally breaks, I see that the enormous man has Bane by the neck against a wall, his fist pounding down upon the other man's face, which is clouded in a sheet of red. Without hesitation, I run directly at the man's back and jump up at him, somehow gaining enough leverage to wrap my legs around his torso and one hand around his thick neck- screaming, I hammer the spatula against his head in fury, each hit making a satisfying thud as it crunches against his skull. I stay like this for a minute or two- the crowd silent- just battering the giant's head, until the man becomes sick of my abuse and proceeds to hurl me off his back and across the floor.

I land with a skid and a cry, the skin being torn from my forearms, and hear the familiarity of Bane's voice, defensively calling in Moroccan-Arabic. Then there are footsteps, and just as I'm halfway to getting to my knees, a hand finds the top of my right arm and hauls me upwards. I wince slightly at the pain, and when I look up, it's Bane looking down on me, his face hideous with blood.

"What are you doing?" He says briskly, looking me up and down, anger in his face.

_Saving you_, is what comes to mind- but I realise now that this was never going to be the case.

"He was beating the hell out of you," I say, surprised by his angered reaction.

"you're making a fool of yourself," he says darkly, squeezing my arm tighter, his expression now scaring me.

"You're hurting me," I manage quietly, trying to break free of the painful grip he still holds.

Bane looks down at his own hand, knuckles tensed, and slowly lets go. He takes a step back from me, stressfully rubbing his temples as if he's wishing me out of existence.

A man in the crowd shouts something angrily and Bane sharply turns, shouting something in retaliation.

Bane turns back to me, and some of the anger fades. He shakes his head at me, then raises his hand.

I flinch away automatically, and he tries again- this time I allow his hand to rest on my shoulder.

"We were taking bets," says Bane more coolly, his expression softening and a slight laugh coming to his voice, "it's a game."

"What sort of a game is that?!" I say, directing my hand to his face, "look at the state of you, you're- you're dripping with blood!"

He goes to answer, but fails. I can tell by his eyes he's still annoyed, angry, even, but something in him seems to snap and he just laughs. I become aware that most of the on-lookers are laughing as well, even the giant Bane was being beaten up by.

I look down at the spatula in my hand, a gasp of laughter escaping through my confusion and embarrassment.

A few minutes later, the laughter at my expense had cooled and Bane takes hold of my shoulder, leading me away from the lightly humoured crowd. There are a couple of unsavoury jeers as I walk through, to which Bane gives short, threat-dealing replies. Instead of moving for the stairs back up to the cells like I'd been expecting, we head straight forwards and under an alcove which leads to a short row of cells on ground level. There's a mechanical-buzz and I look up to see a television screwed onto the wall.

"Is that a TV?!" I say in surprise to Bane, trying to relieve the tension of the arm-grabbing incident.

"That's a bit bloody fancy for a prison, isn't it?"

"It's all about giving hope," recalls Bane, "reminding everyone of what they're missing. Keeps everybody fresh in misery and despair. Heightens the suicide rates."

I think back to the verse I'd read earlier and a slight shiver comes over me.

"Pleasant," I say dryly. "More importantly, though, why don't _we_ get a television?"

Bane shrugs and stands outside of a cell, where an ageing gentleman sits on the end of his raised bunk. His cell is laid out differently to Bane's upstairs- this one has only two walls as opposed to three, the east wall being another row of bars with a door in-between, connecting the two cells. In that cell sat another man, perhaps in his early forties, with jet-black hair which was stripped grey at the sides. He looks up after a few moments and calls something in Arabic. The older man opens his eyes slightly, both of which are milky-clouded by cataracts.

"You need to clean your face," I whisper to Bane, my hand cupping my aching arm. Not even I know quite why I said it.

"That's why we're here," Bane says back in his usual tone.

The forty-something stands from his cell and uses a not nearly as rusty-looking key from his pocket to open up the door connecting the cells. Then, he stepped through and took a second key from the bed of the older man and opened up the doors to us.

"Another brawl." He states to Bane, his brow furrowed. His accent lies somewhere between Arabic and Eastern European, and is impossible for me to exactly pinpoint.

The man, who stood at an average height, stood by and allowed Bane to pass. I followed, and the man raised his eyebrows.

"I'd heard you'd conducted another of your rescue missions," said the man, his English fluent through his accent. "How long will this one last?"

I look at the man, comprehension registering, and he says, "you are not the first girl to be tucked under Bane's wing, my dear."

I don't know why this comes as such a shock, but it does. Of course there have been other women in here at some point- few and far between, I know that, but it's not a displeasure executed solely for me. I look over at Bane, who has moved to sit beside the ageing man with the clouded eyes. Bane shows no sign of recognition towards the greying man's comment. As I look at him, an odd emotion stirs- the beginnings of jealousy, mad as it seems.

Why would I be jealous? So Bane has helped other women in my position, and why shouldn't he? It does no displeasure to his character. What is there to be jealous of?

I can't fathom an answer, only that there is nothing to feel so inclined towards and I'm just being stupid. Some lost sense of being special in his eyes, perhaps. Maybe something more.

It turns out to be that the elderly man is the prison's old doctor, and the younger has taken over since the old doctor's eyesight deteriorated- he was taught in medical practice, he explains, by the old doctor when it became apparent that he wouldn't be able to continue his profession much longer.

Bane sits motionless as the new Doctor, a man by the name of Andri, wipes the sheet of blood from his face with a wet cloth.

"Too extreme," he scolds, pressing harder as Bane winces at a spot. I stand to his left, a pained expression as I see the wounds underneath the red beginning to emerge.

There are two splits in Bane's lip, an unsightly gash above his right eyebrow, a disjointing in the positioning of his jaw and bulbous bruises puffing underneath his bloodshot eyes. I look down the rest of his figure to see bruises imbedded in the muscle of his exposed arms, and a large purple-blue splodge on his collarbone.

"Hold," instructs Andri, bringing Bane's thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose and placing them over it to stem the blood.

"I have seen worse, Bane, but you must be more careful. Your back, there are no problems?"

"It's fine."

"You are wearing the Brace?"

"Yes."

The Doctor gives Bane a knowing look and grabs quickly for the bottom of his shirt. He pulls it upwards, revealing Bane's midriff.

"Budalla!" cries Andri in his own language, then begins to scold Bane in his home tongue, the European in his accent becoming thicker.

"Po, po, po!" Says Bane in the same dialect, in a 'I've heard it enough times' sort of voice.

"You put it on when you go back, understand?"

"Yes, okay."

"Do not forget!"

"Okay!"

The assistant shakes his head and wipes the back of his hand over his forehead.

"Who did you fight?" He asks.

"Ehiemloch," states Bane, distorted due to the fingers over his nose.

Aghast, the elderly doctor by his right side scoffs, then scolds him in Moroccan-Arabic.

Bane waves him off, then the younger man joins in the onslaught.

"What are you thinking, fighting him?" He barks, now attaching a scrap of bandage over the eyebrow wound on bane's face, "he is far too strong. Even for a man of your size. You know you do not stand a chance- _Budalla!"_

Bane shakes his head, then says, "I am getting better."

"Do not make yourself out to be more than you are, Bane, fighting that man is foolishness! And do not tilt your head like that, do you want to choke on your own blood?! Besides- that is not the point, Budalla! The point is you wander in here looking like you have been in a war, week in, week out, and who is left to clean your wounds? Me!"

Bane laughs, catching a dribble of blood on the back of his free hand. I grimace at him, and he winks and grins back, blood across his teeth.

"You won't need to worry about cleaning me up again, Andri. Not when this one won't let me fight."

He recounts the story of me disrupting the fight armed only with my screams and a spatula, and everyone laughs, including a semi-embarrassed me and the old doctor.

"I will have to reset your jaw," says the doctor's assistant, "you have knocked it. Is it painful?"

"Extremely," says Bane, though his countenance doesn't show this fact. The doctor waves Bane's hand from his face then takes his head in both hands.

"This shall hurt," says the assistant matter-of-factly, then there's a sharp click and a grunt of pain from Bane.

"No more fights. Not until the pain is gone. Yes?"

"Yes," agrees Bane somewhat reluctantly, his jaw in his hand.

"Her arms," he mutters through the pain in his face, swaying his free hand in my direction. Andrei looks over to where he had been directed and nods.

"Come, I shall clean them," he says, patting the bunk beside him and reaching out for a bowl of water.

"It'll be fine," I say kindly, brushing off his offer, "it's just a graze, that's all."

"You tell me it's just a graze when it becomes infected, and begins to fester and putrefy. Come, sit. Budalasha flokëverdhë..."

I have no idea what I've just been called, but it didn't sound too savoury.

Not entirely keen on the idea of my skin festering or putrefying, I do as I'm told and sit on the bed. The man takes my left wrist and turns it vein-side up to examine the damage with a twist. He does the same with the other forearm, glances up to the red ring around the top of my arm where Bane grabbed me, but doesn't say anything.

He then takes a clean-ish rag and soaks it in the water, then squeezes the luke-warm liquid over the light cuts on my arm. It stings slightly, but it can be nothing compared to the pain Bane must be feeling in his face.

Andri takes good time with cleaning the wound, before taking an almost-empty bottle of what I assume to be antiseptic, an alcohol-based one by the stench of it, and dripping a precious drop of the liquid onto each arm and evening it across the cuts with the wet rag. As he begins to pat my arms dry, another call takes up in the hub of the prison.

"Deshi! Basara! Deshi! Basara!"

"Another fight?" I ask, and Andri Laughs.

"No no, my dear, far better than a fight. Another shall make the climb."

"What's _'the climb?'_" I ask, and this time Bane answers.

"He will try to climb the wall of the pit."

I blink stupidly- this possibility hadn't even occurred to me.

"Isn't that dangerous?"

"Of course it is."

"But there is a rope," interjects Andri, still working at my forearms, "which is tied around the waist, so that if one does fall, they are secure. Still... accidents happen."

I look out of the cell bars to watch the scene- sure enough, a smallish man is clawing himself slowly up the wall, whilst a large group of others stand around, still chanting.

"What are they saying?" I ask, watching as the climber almost loses his footing on a loose shard of stone which protrudes from the wall. He quickly regains it and steadily continues his escape.

"it means, 'he rises'" Bane explains, looking up at the scene himself.

"Have lots of people done it?" I ask, inwardly questioning my own climbing skills.

"Hundreds have tried," says the doctor, "nobody has succeeded."

"That's because it is impossible," Bane cries, waving his hand dismissively. The old doctor next to him nods in agreement.

"No-one has ever left this pit alive."

There's an unpleasant scuffing noise from outside, the heated chanting cuts out and is replaced by an ear-piercing scream. I look up just in time to see the man who had attempted his climb to freedom being snatched up by the rope, as it snags violently. He groans in exhaustion and despair as one man begins to lower him to ground level, and the others disperse with mumbles of disappointment, their entertainment cut short.

Bane nods, as if to show his point has just been proven. "No-one has ever left here alive," he repeats,

"and no-one ever will."

**AN: yep, Bane didn't win the fight *shock*! I wanted to get across his development- a younger, less experienced Bane. He'll obviously improve with the story as he becomes more bane-ified (does that make sense?)and ooh, angry-bane. he's not all sugar and dumplings, oh no.**

**i included the two guys from the movie, huzahh! if anyone can tell me Andrei's nationality (going from the couple of words he says in his own language), then a metaphorical cookie is to be rewarded to you! NO GOOGLE TRANSLATE! ;D**

**in our next installment, we'll be discovering just how Bane got that nasty-ass scar. Also- alcohol. i'll say no more.**

**still undecided as to whether or not to give our anonymous woman a name. thoughts?**

**R&R, love you all lots! *sparkle kiss***


	5. Chapter 5: Scars

**AN: really, this is two short chapters merged together- the first being 'scars', the second originally entitled 'fumes' (You'll see where the first would have ended by the '-' :)), but due to their length and the fact that they occur on the same day, i thought i'd merge the two. expect a change in tone, though...**

**The first chapter is rather tense, and the following... well, you'll see. I couldn't resist. **

**Chapter Five: **

**Scars**

After leaving the doctor's cell, Bane leads me up the flights of stairs, along the twisting corridor and back to his own cell. We come to the door and I see that it's ajar. Bane stops dead for a second then moves forwards.

"Oh, gosh," I say, cursing myself, "I'm sorry, I was in such a rush I forgot to lock it-"

Sure enough, the key is steadfast in its lock.

Bane steps inside, obviously scanning the room to see whether or not anything has been taken- the room does look disturbed, and I feel something drop in my stomach. The books remain on the table, however, the pages of drawings and writings dispersed. Bane moves to them first, and begins rifling through- he seems to find whatever he is looking for and his shoulders relax.

"Nothing's been taken," he says.

How he can know this by such a quick scan I don't know, but he seems resolute in his conclusion. He bends to the floor, his face still grotesquely swollen, and lifts a rigid flap in the side of one of the boxes which serves at the table, and reaches his arm into the gap. He pulls out a bulky gather of rigid fabric, standing with it and stretching it out. He places it on his bunk and as I sit down on mine, I see that it is a belt of some kind.

Buckles and straps wind all around it, and though it is ill-made and worn, it looks as though it would withstand anything.

Bane bends his neck and pulls his beige shirt from over his head, revealing his muscular, rigid frame, which is a surprisingly deep colour for one who has spent the last god-knows how long at the bottom of a well.

I wonder how long he has been here, and think to ask, but as he turns to pick up the belt a whole new question comes to mind.

Directly down his spine runs an inch-wide scar, raised and ragged against his muscular back. The unsightly scar stops just below his waistband and disappears up into his hairline, which is parted slightly by it.

My girlish embarrassment at him being topless in front of me is nothing compared to the astonishment at his wound, and the words betray my mouth before I can even think to stop them.

"Bane, what happened?!"

He turns his head to me as if to question what I mean, but realisation catches him before he can ask.

"There was no rope," he says, folding his shirt, "when I made the climb."

"Oh my God," I say, imagining him falling from such a height. "When was this?"

"Years ago," he says. "It was my third attempt at climbing the wall. A mistake I won't be making again."

"What caused the scarring?" I ask quietly, and he laughs softly.

"The doctor had just begun to lose his eyesight at the time- and he was off his head on cleansing alcohol. As you can see, my back suffered for it."

"So was it- a slipped disc or-"

He coughs suddenly, and I see it as a sign he does not want to discuss this further. I get the message, knowing I'm already out of his good books for my failed intervention this morning, and resolve to shut up for a minute or two.

I watch as he pulls the belt around his lower back and starts fastening the straps. Once they are all secured, he raises his hand to his jaw and hisses. He sits down on the edge of the bed, eyes closed to brace the pain.

"Are you alright?" I ask in quiet concern.

He smiles slightly, though his face remains contorted.

"Not really," he answers, voice gravelled.

"Maybe it's a good job I came with my spatula," I smile, and he looks up at me, a hint of annoyance behind his eyes. I gulp slightly.

"Perhaps," he says, wincing in pain as he moves a hand across his face.

"Why were you even fighting?" I say, testing the waters. "You said it was a game- like, what, people take bets on who will win? What do you get if you do beat your opponent? There's nothing down here worth having, is there?"

"Not really- only respect."

"And that's how respect is earned down here?"

"Yes."

I shake my head slightly.

"You disagree with this method," Bane says.

"Yes, I do," I say assertively. He looks up to the ceiling, focusing on one of its metal bars.

"I- I don't want you getting hurt."

He frowns slightly and looks to the left, avoiding my watch.

"Don't worry about me," he says, rubbing the back of his thick neck.

There's a moment of silence, "I can't help it," I say, almost a whisper.

He holds my gaze for a long while, his expression slightly pained, eyebrows knitted together as though he's looking for something in my face but can't find it. I look away first, and he gives a long sigh.

"I'm going to get some food," he says.

"No, I'll go," I say, even though the prospect terrifies me, "you need to rest."

"Don't be stupid," he says, standing.

"I'm not being stupid," I defend, standing up to meet him, and reaching my hand out to his arm, "look at you- you're hurt, you've got to rest!"

"I've been through a lot worse, trust me," he says, putting a hand on one of the cell bars.

"Besides, this-" he circles his face with a pointed finger, "is nothing compared to what they'll do to _you _if you're out there alone, understand? You rest."

Before I can protest, he's pushed the key into the lock, shrugged off my protesting grip and forced the temperamental lock to yield. He slips out of the door, ignoring my protest, locks it through the bars and disappears.

I call after him a moment, but it quickly becomes apparent he has no intention of listening to a word I say. I groan in frustration and turn back to the room, then sink into the sheets of the bed. I mumble to myself childishly, quietly cursing the world and all its inhabitants.

I pull my hair back off my face and stare at the ceiling.

"I've done enough resting."

An hour or so later, he still hasn't returned. I take the opportunity to have a wash using the water in the metal basin which is kept in the bathroom, a drain drilled into the centre of the floor, creating a wet room.

I try reading a few snippets from the various holy books, but quickly become bored- without someone to properly explain their complexity, reading them bodes useless.

Darkness falls overhead and the bustling sounds of the prison fade, until there's only a small group of about twenty men sat in a circle at the centre of the prison; they collect around a crackling fire which casts golden light onto their silhouettes. They are swigging from glass bottles, and laughing heartily. I assume Bane is with them, and resolve to go to sleep, still annoyed with him for not being able to understand that I only meant well, or at least not finding this consoling enough.

But, I realise, the person I'm most annoyed with is myself. Not because I ran to his aid or because I was stupid enough to leave the door open, but because I lost control; a situation occurred and I didn't know how to handle it; I panicked, didn't _think_, and I can see that Bane hated it. I not only made myself look like an idiot, but him as well.

These thoughts stir in my head as I finally fall asleep.

I'm awoken hours later by a rattling at the door. I realise it's a hand through the bars, and jolt upright, relief singing over me when I find that it's Bane's arm, struggling in the dark to twist the old brass key in its stubborn lock. Once my eyes have better adjusted to the blackness, I get up and walk over, turning the key myself and managing to force it to yield.

I expect the same cold reception as earlier.

"Where have you been?" I ask smoothly, as though I were his mother or his wife.

"Socialising," he says, swaggering into the doorway.

"Where's the food?" I say, and Bane's expression falters. He turns out his pockets theatrically.

"I didn't get any." He expresses, clutching onto one of the bars of the cell.

"Food is what you went for in the first place," I say, frustrated as I try to ignore my hunger pains.

I watch his eyes, barely visible in the darkness, but I can see that they're unfocused. . It's at this point I clock on to the fact that he's intoxicated.

"You took the key with you," I say, placing it on the cardboard stack.

"Yes," he acknowledges, his words slightly slurred, "thought it'd save you having to get up again. Makes more sense, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I guess," I say sleepily, rubbing my eyes. "But it'll take you half an hour trying to open the door from the outside, why not just leave it here and I'll do it?"

"Because you might be asleep or you might choose to lock me out. Or even decide-" he giggles- "to try and save me when I'm fighting again."

I blush, and he laughs wheezily, taking the key from the cardboard tower with a fumbling hand and slipping it into his pocket.

"But-" I begin, but he raises his hand flamboyantly and says,

"My cell, my rules. Comprende?"

I think it over a second then give in. I doubt he'll remember this conversation in the morning anyway.

"Ci, signor."

He laughs; he's close, so close I feel his warm breath against my neck. I pull back from him slightly- the nauseating fumes of alcohol on his breath are unbearable.

"Jesus, what have you been drinking, mouthwash?!"

"Vodka," he says in a pronounced Russian accent, his head lolling slightly to the right, "at least, they told me it was vodka. But there might have been a bit of mouthwash in there, too. Gives it a kick..."

"why were you drinking?" I say, annoyed that he's let himself get in such a state; not even knowing what it is that's caused him to be this way.

"You know what they say," he slurs, "when the going gets tough, the tough get- pissed."

He laughs at himself, nuzzling his head closer to me as his frame fills the doorway.

"You're drunk," I say, shying backwards.

Still laughing, he raises his hands and takes my face in them, then brings his lips down upon my forehead and makes an over-exaggerated smacking sound. After a few seconds, he pulls back with a moonlit grin and laughs more.

"You're very drunk," I correct with an embarrassed smile, unable to hold it back regardless of my hard manner. I'm glad it's dark so that he can't see the blush in my cheeks. I pull away his hands awkwardly then turn and cross the room, then say with as much authority as I can muster, "come on, bedtime. You need your beauty sleep after this morning."

"Yes," he agrees with a contagious yawn, closing the door behind him and trying to lock it with fumbling hands.

"Give it here," I say, pulling the key from his grasp and locking the door. He hums to himself and wanders over to the bed, slumps down upon it and yawns again.

"Goodnight," I sigh, and he waves his hand in the air, mumbling something in a high-pitched voice, which deteriorates into a breathless giggle. I smile, and lie down on my own bed.

After a few minutes of silence, Bane suddenly jolts up. He springs to his feet and I roll to face him.

"What are you doing now?!" I say, sitting up in annoyance, and he pulls back the curtain which leads to the bathroom.

"I need- I need to shave!" he says.

"It's the middle of the night!" I cry, "and it's dark, you'll mess your face up even more!"

"I don't care, I'll be-"

He stops dead, and I hear his hands fumbling about the counter.

"What is it?" I say, getting out of bed, and he sighs with exaggerated anger.

"The bastards," he says. "The bastards took the soap. They took my soap!"

I wonder what he's talking about, but then remember leaving the door open earlier.

I smile and throw back my head. Half-asleep, I walk into the bathroom and take the cut-throat from the counter, taking it back into the main room and hiding it underneath the mattress of my cot, ultimately stopping the possibility of him accidentally slicing his jugular in a drunken shaving attempt.

"Where has it gone?" Bane says after a few seconds, not having noticed me moving the razor in his drunk state, "they've taken the razor as well!"

I smile and get back into bed.

"I'll find you one tomorrow," I say.

This seems to console him as he crawls back to the room and collapses onto the bed. Within minutes the silence is invaded by loud, lumbering snores of drunkenness. I roll over, folding the pillow over my head, to block out the tedious noise, trying to get to sleep.

There's a rasping across the metal of the cell bars and I groan in annoyance.

"What now?!" I moan, sitting upright and pulling the layer of skirt from over my head.

As my eyes adjust, I see a figure outside the bars.

"What?!" I demand in English, more careless than I usually am due to my non-drowsy state.

Bane shifts his head slightly, disturbed by the sound, but not so much that it stirs him from his alcohol-soaked slumber.

The man at the bars presses his finger to his lips in an attempt to get me to quieten down, and I stare at him fiercely, though I doubt he can see my expression when my face is highlighted only by the light of the dismal sky.

The man comes closer, and through the murkiness of the dark I am able to discern him making an obscene hand gesture against the bars which propositions something incredibly distasteful.

I give a frustrated cry which demonstrates my disgust, then show him an obscene hand gesture of my own, only mine propositions a very different thing.

I pull the blanket back over my head and bury myself away from the harsh realities of the waking world.

**AN: well, wasn't that fun.**

**i couldn't resist getting Bane drunk- the idea came to mind and it wouldn't leave. There was a purpose to it, though, and that purpose was to show a little more humanity to this early bane- mainly the idea of him being, in some respects, similar to the other men of the prison- indulging in immediate pleasure (at least in this instance) in order to block out the harsh realities of life, tying in to the end of the chapter(s), and, of course, in showing how he is when intoxicated- far more careless, etc. - you'll be pleased to know all of that makes a whole lot more sense in my head. **

**Hope you liked it, feel free to mentally hit me with a mallet for getting Bane pissed. A hint of humor never goes amiss :D**

**R&R, best of luck in your daily lives, keep those eyes peeled for the next chapter!**

**...i've no idea what's going to happen there at the moment, but... i guess we'll find out ;)**

**lots of love!**


	6. Chapter 6: Unleavened

**AN: i'm sorry its been so long. essays are killing me. Enjoy, my pretties ;)**

Chapter Six:  
Unleavened

I wake in the darkness, heart beating, after another nightmare. Hands pulling at me, my own screams crushing the darkness. Bolt upright and shivering, I look over to Bane- he's lay facing away from me, heavy in sleep due to his intoxication. He has one muscular arm pulled around his ripping chest, the other bent up and around his head, covering his face and neck. I can see that he is shivering, also- profusely so. A scrap of moonlight falls around him, and I notice something dark about the forearm above his head- I stand, worried that he might somehow be bleeding, and touch it gently to find that it is infact blood, but it is dried. I carefully wrap my hand around his wrist and lift his arm upwards to expose his face and try to find the source of the blood, worriedly thinking he may have found the razor afterall.  
The light from the moon falls over his face, his expression hardened, even in sleep, making his features less beautiful than they should be. The bruises and swellings are less notable in this light, which I find to be of comfort.  
His eyelids flit gently, and I realize he must be dreaming. What would he dream of, a man such as this? I realize I know nothing about him- nothing important, at least. I know only the man I've seen these last few days- first a captor, then a Saviour. A protector and a friend. An asthete, a guardian. A fighter, a threat, a drunkard, and now this- a dreamer. A tired man; worn from the trials of this world, the tribulations it brings. Worn from me.  
His knees pull together and he exhales a shiver. I see that the blood has in fact come from his nose, which has at some point since our last encounter bled and re-clotted, allowing enough time to dry near-black.  
Gently, I trace the backs of my fingers down his cheek, rough with stubble. His face twitches slightly, but he does not break from sleep. I trace his jawline again, and it is only now I that I recognize the ice in his touch.  
After a few moments thought, I stand quietly and wriggle from the worn skirt, then turn it inside out so that the inner layer is on top and lie it down on my bed. In the dark I fumble under the mattress for the cut-throat razor, eventually finding it. I hold it up to the moonlight, watching the silver rays dance on it's surface, before digging it up and underneath the bottom layer of the skirt then pulling hard. The seams tear with a loud ripping noise, and I continue all the way around the waistband until the inner layer comes loose. I pull it free and lie the newly loose fabric flat, before holding one side firm and slipping the razor underneath, tearing at the fabric. I rip it from top to bottom, so that when it is unfolded it makes a large, albeit thin, rectangle of fabric. Seizing it by two corners, I swing it over to Bane's side and gently lay the fabric over him. His muscles tense a moment, but he stays subdued in sleep's delicate grasp.  
I pull myself back into the remains of my heavy skirt then lie back against the bed, drifting delicately into sleep.  
I awake a few hours later, dizzy from another nightmare. The orange glow of morning is creeping over the complex, and as I try to shake away thoughts of the haunting in my dreams, Bane's heavy form stirs.

Still wanting sleep, burning hot from the panicked blaze of my nightmare, I gather my hair up off my face and search for something to hold it there with in a weak attempt to cool down.  
I eventually resolve to use the shoelace from my paper-thin shoes, gathering my hair and securing it messily. The fringe refuses to be tamed, however, its bangs hanging uselessly. As my hands run through the hair I realize just how much grease has accumulated in it, and wish there was a shower facility in this damned place.  
There's a pained groan from beside me and I turn to see Bane, now spread-eagled on his small bed, the shred of skirt now kicked to the floor. Two of his limbs are hanging off the edge, one arm thrown over his eyes as he groans in a pitiful attempt to send the world away.  
"Rise and shine," I say sleepily, with every intention to go back to bed in a minute. I pick up a mug of water left on the floor from yesterday and hold it out in Bane's direction.  
"Drink this, it will help."  
Bane groans again, his voice like tattered sandpaper.  
"What happened?" He says groggily, one hand shielding his bruised eyes from the light of the day.  
"You got drunk last night," I tell him, then he seems to tense, and somehow manages to haul himself into a sitting position.  
"I don't remember," he says, his expression harder than it had been moments ago, his body rigid.  
"I'm not surprised," I say.  
He doesn't express what he's punishing himself for inside, but it is clear by his expression that he is doing so.  
"Your face is looking better," I say in an attempt to divert his attention, remarking on the swellings which have unleavened nicely in most places. The gash above his brow is loosing it's plaster slightly, the woven scrap bandage becoming dog-eared at it's sides. The bruises of his eyes are now more black than purple.  
I watch as he sips the water, then hands me the cup without thanks and stands. I leave him to his thoughts, resolving to go back to sleep.

I scream myself awake a couple of hours later. Bolt upright, shivering with sweat, I hear Bane's voice from the bathroom. He draws back the curtain and leans out of the room, the razor in his other hand.  
"Only a nightmare," he reassures, then sweeps the heavy fabric back and returns to shaving.  
Light glares through the metallic cell bars, and the prison scorches with life. I shakily stand, feeling the blood disperse itself equally throughout my body again. and somehow manages to haul himself into a sitting position.  
I re-lace my hair, pulling back the messy, half- blonde strands from in front of my face. Wiping my face, I hear a sharp hiss from the bathroom.  
"What is it?"  
"Nothing," he says. "Just caught my face with the razor."  
I nod, although no-one can see me.  
"How are you feeling?" I ask, unsure as to his mood.  
"Moderate," he responds with a cool voice, and I hear him tapping the cut-throat on the basin. There's a splash of water and he pulls back the drape fabric, wiping his dripping chin then moving towards the door.  
"Where is the key?" He asks, staring out at the prison through the bars, sill shirtless from the night before. I slip my hand under the scratchy burlap mattress in order to find it, but retract my hand as a thought comes to mind.  
"What are you going to do?" I ask. He turns his face to me and frowns.  
"What business of that is yours?"  
I blink stupidly, upset by his tone.  
"You're still mad at me," I state quietly, avoiding looking at the man.  
"I'm not mad at you," he says. "Now, where is the key." It doesn't sound like a question.  
"You're not going to fight again," I say worriedly, "are you?"  
"I'm going to acquire some breakfast. It's drop off day. Now give me the key."  
I still don't believe him, but I can feel his calm exterior beginning to ware. Still, I hold steadfast.  
"Let me come with you," I say.  
"No," he answers.  
"Please," I plead, "I've been here days and only left this cell once-"  
"I said no, my word is final. Now give me they key."  
"But-"  
"-You're trying my patience."  
There's a certain finality to that statement that stops my speech in it's tracks. He looks at me testingly, as if daring me to defy him. Silent, I move my hand and withdraw the key, holding it out to him. He takes it and twists it in the lock.  
"Do not do that again."  
He opens the door and leaves me alone in the cold cell.

**AN: unleavened? hasn't 'risen?' geddit? i'm so fucking hilarious.**

**stay tuned, folks!**


	7. Chapter 7: Exposure

**AN: ooh, words.**

**Chapter Seven:**

**Exposure**

Sitting by the cell door, I try my best to keep an eye on Bane's movements; as he predicted, a bundle of parcels are lowered by rope into the prison, and even before they touch the ground the atmosphere turns wild. Bane is near the front, and I worry a moment that he might be trampled, but swiftly he turns around and cracks a man behind him on the forehead with his fist, sending the prisoner crumbling to the ground, where he is trodden on by other scrambling convicts. I watch as Bane, swift as a panther, pulls one of the parcels from its rope with a swift tug and sets about trying to unwrap it- a smaller, quicker man manages to pull it over the top of Bane's head. Bane springs around to face the kid, who is already sprinting through the crowd- Bane grabs hold of his collar the moment he catches up with him, pulling him groundwards and the two disappear in amongst the swarm of people. I can't imagine the beating Bane's giving the young inmate, and it pains me to think how bad it might be. I look up to the burning Arabic sun and try to forget about it, as that seems the only way I can deal with things at the moment. Forgetting about my family, the friends I left behind; that I was taken from.

I push back the tears, even though I'm alone. My feelings are normally a thing I keep to myself, but suddenly my heart feels ready to burst and I can't compress the need to tell someone. But who would I tell? Bane? No. He wouldn't want to listen, I know that. Even after a few short days in his company I've instinctively learnt that he dislikes both weakness and defiance- two things I've clearly shown too much of. Adjusting to life here- or at least attempting to- has kept me distracted. Helped me to forget. But this moment has seen a change in that- I want my mum, I say in a whisper, as it's my most prominent thought. I want my family and my friends, I want my house and my life back. I want to go home.

Tears spill over my lenses and I rush to the bathroom to wash them away before Bane returns.

He arrives not long after with the usual porridge, accompanied also by a bundle of leeks, a couple of potatoes and a small burlap bag.

Excited by the prospect of food that doesn't consist of oats, I try my best to stay calm in light of the confrontation earlier.

He hands me the usual bowl, then strips the leaves from one of the leeks and gives it to me.

"Thank you," I say mustily, trying my best to keep my eyes from him- I pray he doesn't notice their redness.

He pulls a shirt over his head then we take up our usual positions, opposite each other on our flimsy beds, crunching and slurping at the food. My technique with the spatula is definitely improving, and I'm now able to eat with solid mouthfuls. The leek, though bland, is an incredible refreshment from days of nothing but porridge.

An hour or so passes, and I manage not to lift my eyes through its entirety. I hear him leafing through the crisp-sounding thin pages of one of his holy books. I keep my eyes on my hands, which I grasp in my lap.

The past couple of days have shown me just how terrifying Bane could be, and it's a side I do truly fear. I may not have provoked him to breaking point yet, but the harsh words, tense atmosphere and purple ring of bruises around my arm are a sure reminder of what further provision could unleash. I resolve to be more reserved in my speech and actions from now on.

The page-turning ceases, and I risk a momentary fleeting glance up. I find that Bane's eyes are locked softly onto the crushed bruising of my upper arm, expression thoughtful, yet somehow blank at the same time.

I look back to my lap, hoping he hasn't noticed my stare. There was something supressed in his eyes- perhaps a tinge of guilt. This, in turn, makes me feel guilty.

More minutes pass like this, then Bane's accented voice floods the cell.

"Tomorrow," he says, and I look up timidly, as though to question his meaning.

"You can come with me tomorrow," he concludes. I feel something light up in my eyes and almost unleash a smile.

"Thank you," I say, a whisper again.

"I am sorry," I confirm, though he's heard it already. He doesn't physically acknowledge my apology, instead shuts his coverless holy text and stands. He doesn't seem to have an aim, just paces back and forth a moment or two before sitting back down and pressing the back of his hand over his most abused eye and grimacing. His face, though dark and splotchy around the bruised areas, now looks much better, the swelling utterly diminished on the right side of his face.

He stands again, leaning to the bottom of the cardboard stand and fishing out his back brace. He pulls it around himself and begins toying with the complex straps, hissing now and then as the device begins to pull him into place. He turns his back to me, tying the buckles at the back. He seems to get stuck with one, and I stand to help him out.

"Let me give you a hand."

He almost jumps at my touch, stepping away from it and saying, "it's fine. I can do it."

Somewhat hurt, I sit back down. Sure enough, he swiftly buckles the support. He reaches for the curious little burlap bag, which is laid beside the potatoes and leek, and opens it up.

"Here," he says, handing it to me.

"What is it?" I ask, curiously probing my fingers inside.

"Unleavened sweet-bread."

I raise my eyebrows, pulling a slice of the crispy sheeting out.

"So it's like... cake?" I say, and he nods with a smile.

I stare at it for a while, and Bane says,

"try some."

I bite the tiniest bit off and almost groan with pleasure.

"Mmm," I say, eyes closed and smiling. "Sugar, at last."

"Good, isn't it?" Bane says, reaching over and putting his bear-sized hand in the tiny bag. He takes up his spot on his bed, and I watch as he bites at the crumbly base. He eats it surprisingly daintily for a man of his size- I can't repress my smile.

"What?" He asks suspiciously, still churning the cake-like substance in his mouth.

"It just looks odd, you eating it like that," I smile with a small laugh.

"Like what?!" He says defensively, his dark eyes now smiling, "what's so funny about me eating cake?"

"You just eat it like such a gentleman," I smile, and he laughs.

"What, are you suggesting I'm not a gentleman?" He says, smiling, and I reply,

"You know what I mean."

"Like a sir," he says a few minutes later.

"Sir Bane... I could get used to that."

"Well, you know what they say- good food and good company."

"Mediocre at best," he corrects.

"The food or the company?" I ask with a mock-offended tone.

"Both," we say together.

The two of us smile foolishly, enjoying the smaller luxuries of life.

'Tomorrow' comes sooner than expected, and the prospect of escaping the cell, no matter how long for, is an exciting one.

"When are we going?" I ask like a 6-year-old with a Disney Land ticket, and he runs a hand over his bruised eyes and says,

"Don't be too excited. Besides, we hardly need be in a rush."

I stand by the cell bars, watching curiously as two ropes drop down from the top of the pit. Slowly, two figures begin to descend from it, struggling in vain to climb to its top. A group of prison-dwellers begin to congregate around their descending feet, which kick about the place in panic. The ropes are dropped and the men plunge the last few meters to the ground. In a second, the group of men pounce on the fallen two like animals, hungry and wild.

I remember what Bane said about the new prisoners being initiated to prison life through the process of taking their belongings. It's brutal to watch, fists flying, and after a few more seconds I find I can't watch anymore.

"How long does this go on?!" I say to Bane, wishing the two men would be left alone.

"Depends whether or not they have anything worth taking," Bane answers, taking off his back brace and placing it under the cardboard tower. "I'll take you when it's calm."

"Okay," I say, hoping that will be soon.

"A few rules," Bane says, massaging his temples, "you stay with me at all times."

"Of course."

"You keep quiet- don't talk to anyone."

I think a moment, then reply, "not even Andri?"

Bane seems to remember the doctor, but then answers, "No. Do not speak to anyone. These people are not your friends."

I find this a bit extreme, but say nothing.

The raucous downstairs cools off, the band of men dispersing and leaving the shaken-looking two new recruits stood alone, staring in blank shock at the scope of the prison around them. I remember how I felt when I'd been dropped down here, and feel no envy of them whatsoever.

I watch the two stumble back and forth a while, trying to decide what it is they should do. Both are young, nineteen at the most, dark-looking with stubbled faces and well-worn rags of clothing. The two look as though they were high-spirited before their condemnation to this abyss, but now look nothing but bewildered and scared. Eventually the two settle on an empty shared cell, of which there are quite a few on the ground floor- people tend to favour the higher cells, I've come to realise, as they are cooler in the day.

"Ready?" Bane asks, and I nod, glad I haven't had to wait long for the journey. Oddly enough I find I'm shaking, though whether with nerves or excitement I'm not sure. It seems silly, being so hyped over something as little as leaving the cell.

Bane unlocks the barred door and looks both ways suspiciously, then, unexpectedly, roughly grabs me by the shoulder and yanks me outside.

"What was that for?!" I say in shock, and he pulls me round in front of him.

"I told you not to talk."

Hand still on my shoulder, he marches me forwards and down the flight of stairs, taking no care with his steps. Not wanting to speak for fear of provoking him but also wanting to demand of him what the hell he's playing at, it suddenly clicks; this is all part of the act. Appealing to the male, primitive instinct of_ 'this is mine- hands off._'

Though this tactic may work, I greatly dislike the idea of being put in such a derogatory position, especially when its purely based on the fact that I'm a woman. However I realise that, for my own safety and to some extent Bane's as well, I have to go along with it. So, I keep my mouth shut, hands held together and head held high.

I suppose I knew there would be leers and jeers, but it's no consolation when they occur all the same. One man gets a bit to close and Bane almost bites his head off, nearly flinging me across the dustbowl as a result. He secures his grip on my shoulder and carries on forwards, into the main ring, past the sundial podium and into another network of cells built into the chamber. As the small cells here are so close together, their owners have flung tented sheets of dirty fabric over the tops of the bars in order to add a touch of privacy- or perhaps to aid in blocking out the heated sun a tad more. A hand flies out through a bar beside me, and I have to swing away to avoid it. A voice with a dark accent creeps something unsavoury and Bane swings again, hissing a warning at the man in Moroccan-Arabic. The argument between the two becomes more heated and, still unable to speak, touch a gentle hand to Bane's strong arm in order to tell him to leave it. He responds to my message and returns his crushing grip to me, carrying on through the network.

The scale and complexity of the prison is immense, and twisting through this web of cells really brings that home. _No wonder it takes Bane so long when he goes to get food, _I think.

At the end of the next densely humid cell block, which is increasingly dark, a steam-filled room sits- the steam is that thick that no one can be seen inside it, though I hear voices coming from within.

Bane wraps a thick hand around one bar and shouts something in Arabic, which is responded to by the cry of a middle-aged male. Seconds later, the door unclicks and a red-bearded man with thick lines in his face opens it up and beckons us inside. The steam is overwhelming, so much so that it causes my eyes to sting. Bane takes a seat on a wooden bench at the side of the largish room and I sit beside him.

The unknown man returns to his pot, which, by the bland, familiar smell of it, I assume to be the watered-down oats I've become accustomed to.

The red-haired man shouts something in our direction, stirring the pot.

"He says we should have come earlier," Bane translates, "he had gristle from the package drop- it's all been taken now."

Gristle is hardly what I'd call appealing, but when faced with nothing but oats, even that sounds like a fun deal.

Underlying the humidity of the steam is the prominent smell of smoke, which I assume is how the water came to be boiled in the first place.

"Why doesn't he cook out in the open area?" I ask Bane, my eyes on the red-haired chef as he works lazily about the pot. "There would be ventilation there."

"The food would all be stolen before it even had the chance to be cooked," answers Bane. "These are not the most patient of men."

The prison's resident chef points blatantly to me through the smoke, wittering on to Bane in Arabic. Bane does not reply.

"What did he say?" I ask.

Bane wipes a shiver of sweat from his brow.

"That he's heard about you."

I remember the length of the chef's speech and say, "what else?"

Bane turns to me with a blunt expression, his eyes focused somewhere above my head and says, "that you're not nearly as attractive as he's been lead to believe."

I take this in, expression blank. _Not exactly God's gift yourself, _I think as I watch the humming red-haired man brooding over the pot with his straggly form.

A few minutes later, the man shouts 'ho!' and begins paddling up the oats with a makeshift ladle. Bane produces our wooden bowls from seemingly thin air and holds each out to be filled.

"Where did those come from?" I ask in playful wonderment.

"You don't want to know," says Bane, and I mock-grimace through my smile. He briefly shows off his teeth from beneath his smiling lips, a cheeky glint in his eye, but it goes quickly as the cook re-demands his attention.

Bane replies to him with a passive nature, handing one of the bowls over to me and ushering me to the barred door. We both thank the man in his language, Bane reminding me to be quiet, then he leads me by the shoulder and back through the heavy network of cells. As we return to open air, light from the top of the well glaring into my lenses, I see there's another fight on. The same man who had almost destroyed Bane in that fight the other day is fighting again, though this time his competitor looks even more ill-matched.

"Who is he?" I dare to whisper, marvelling at the sheer size of the first man, and to my fortune Bane responds not harshly but with an answer.

"Ehiemloch," he says quietly as we pass the fight. "It means 'giant.'"

I nod, and Bane's thick grip on my shoulder tightens. I feel his stone grip pushing against the side of my hand, and it brings home how vulnerable a position I really am in- if he decided he no longer wanted me around, eating his food and sharing his bed, he could easily just crack my neck and discard of me. The fact he hasn't done so (at least not yet, a niggling voice in the back of my head tells me) is comforting, and suddenly the firm lock on me feels no longer like a threat.

"So, did you enjoy your little trip out?" Bane says half-comically, unlocking the cell door and pushing me with more force than necessary back inside.

"Ouch," I say; he doesn't apologise.

I sit a few hours later, a stub of graphite and a scrap of paper in my lap, trying to recreate the faces of my loved ones. Inaccurate, yes, but I try my very hardest to get each detail right- freckles, hairstyles, tiny long-forgotten scars. The portraits by no means do them justice, and this annoys me, and scares me all the same.

What if I start to forget? Lose sight of their smiles, of the glint in their eyes? Though I have almost pushed the factor aside, some part of me knows that I'll live the rest of my days out here, in the dark. A million miles away from the life that I'd known. What if their memory fades, and I forget those little details- the freckles, the hair, the scars? My eyes well and I demand for them to turn aside from tears, but they seem reluctant to listen. I edge around Bane, who is doing his regular sit-up routine, and hide away behind the bathroom curtain. In this vague solitude, I curl over the wash basin and allow the tears to fall, being careful to repress any sob that might escape.

**AN: but why is the Rum gone?!**

**R&R if thou so wishes, my pretties. Depending on wether or not i pass out from tiredness tonight, chapter eight should be gracing your eyelids tomorrow :)**

**lots of love!**


	8. Chapter 8: Brave

**Chapter Eight: **

**Brave**

**AN: And on the eighth chapter, Wizadora said, "Let there be more words," And it came to be so.**

**Ohhh nooo, naughty swears. Beware, sweet young ears, beware. Love you.**

When I awake the following morning, Bane is not in the cell. I glance quickly for the key to the door but soon find that it's gone. Resolving that he must have gone in pursuit of food, I find out my creation from yesterday and sit with the scrap of paper on my lap once more, trying again to re-create the faces of my family. The splinter of graphite is wearing thin and breakage looks inevitable, so I take great care with each stroke.

Deep in concentration, I hear the clearing of someone's throat and look up to see a thin man, arm up against the bar, smirking in at me. I can tell by his expression that he hasn't just popped over for a friendly chat.

"What?" I spit, a venomous fire in my chest.

The man chuckles.

"Let me in," he says, his accent deep and broken, "please."

"Go away," I demand, my face burning as I haunch back over my drawing.

"Bane is not here," reasons the man, "he won't know. I'll pay you."

_"Fuck off!"_ I shout, disgusted by his proposition. If these men think I'm to become some cheap prison prostitute they can think again.

The man stares a second, then bites his teeth against the bars and moves along.

"You'll come around," he says through his accent, and I sit shaking with rage.

Ill-timed as it seems, another man comes along not long after. This man speaks no English, but I tell him where to go all the same, and he seems to get the message, barking something hostile at me in Arabic. He refuses to go away, so I chose to just ignore him as he continues to talk away at me.

Footsteps boom suddenly and Bane's shadow is cast into the cell, his voice thick with Arabian as he verbally cuts into the man, who tries to bark him down before sucking his teeth and shoving past Bane.

Simmering fury in his face, Bane unlocks the cell and moves inside, securely tightening the door and sitting down on his bed, head in his hands and shoulders slumped wearily.

"Everything alright?" He asks, raising his eyes to me.

"Maybe if you taught me how to say 'eff off' in Arabic," I muse, a frown upon my face.

"The best thing is to ignore them. Take note of what they look like, and when I get back, I'll find them and teach them a lesson they won't forget in a long while."

"Okay," I say, quite enjoying the notion of some of these perverted criminals receiving a few throws from Bane for the sake of my honour.

"Grab my brace, will you?" Bane asks, and I immediately nod and crouch down to remove the back support from inside the cardboard cabinet. Inside there, I also find a tiny, scuffed teddy bear, greyish-purple in colour with huge floppy ears and buttonless eyes. It's cotton smile has been chewed away, it's once soft skin now smooth and threadbare.

"What's this?" I ask curiously, and Bane looks down at me in question.

He catches sight of the stained teddy and frowns.

"Put that back."

I don't push him to answer any further, though my curiosity remains. I run my thumb over the weathered bear and cushion it softly in the cardboard box. I hand out the support belt, and Bane takes it with thanks and tugs at the bottom of his worn blue shirt, working it upwards and over his chest. I catch a quick glimpse of his torso while his head is lost in fabric and feel my cheeks rouge ever so slightly. Not taking any notice, Bane sets about his regular body-building routine, and I sit, holding the stub of weathered graphite in my hand as I stare up into the mouth of the pit, my picture in my lap once more. The sun streams in teasingly, flaunting herself to torture us down below. It's painful knowing that just above the surface is freedom; a world away from this hell, free from its trials. If I made it to the surface I could be home within a matter of days. I envisioned it, being home, being safe. The people who condemned me down here in the first place would never know; the prison has no guards, after all. If I made the climb, scoured that wall...

"Don't do that," says Bane's voice, and I am drawn from my trance a moment to see his brow furrowed, buried in what I now recognise as his copy of the Koran. I wonder how much time has passed, with me just sat here, thinking. Brooding.

"Do what?" I ask, though I'm quite sure of what he means; he knows what I was thinking. He always knows.

"You're setting yourself up for a fall," he says. "Your head knows this, but your heart masks the facts. You must put all this aside-" he says, gently taking the drawings of my loved ones from my grasp, "and focus on the now. This is the reality; this is what matters."

I take back the inaccurate drawings as though they were precious, not liking his words. He clearly picks up on my distain and says,

"You think of trying the climb. That is foolish. A thousand men have tried and failed over the centuries, men far more long-suffering and strong than you. Do not raise yourself on false hopes."

His cold but true words ring clear, deadening something inside me. The flames of my heart rot to embers and I feel utterly deflated.

"Keep those words in mind," Bane says, "or you'll only end up like those fools."

He points down into the main pit and I can see the two new arrivals, the spirited Arabian boys, tying themselves into the ropes. A small gathering group around their feet, looking forward to their rare entertainment; the crunching of bones will be most satisfying to them, I confer.

I watch the first boy struggle in vain to get firm footing on the wall's first ledge.

"I just... I want to go home," I tell Bane, even though I'd promised myself I'd hold these feelings in.

There's a shift in the atmosphere and I feel his muscles tense. He doesn't like these situations, that I know. He says nothing, perhaps in an attempt to distinguish the conversation.

"I can't help it," I say, almost guiltily.

Bane's eyes shift across the room and settle just outside of the prison bars.

"You need something to take your mind off this," he says quietly, more to himself than to me.

I nod, biting my nails uncomfortably, my knees drawn up to my chest. With a sigh, Bane stands and wraps his brace around himself, tightening it as usual.

"I'll be gone a while," he says, wiping the weeping cut on his forehead, which looks rather septic, with his disgarded shirt before pulling himself back into it. I want to know where he's going but decide not to ask, just incase he snaps at me again.

I watch him find the key, struggle with it a moment then disappear into the complex.

It's close to night when he returns, in which time I've managed to ever-so slightly improve my pitiful drawings, use a few sparing drops of water to clean some of the grease from my matted hair (which is practically begging me for a comb), and to warn off a pair of unsightly prisoners with vile intentions.

He walks through the door with a stern expression, and for a moment I think he's in a bad mood but then he gives me an airy smile, sets a bowl of porridge down on the bedside stack then fumbles in his shirt for something. I watch curiously as he draws out a handful of three lumps of reddish rock, holds them out to me and says,

"I thought you might like these."

"...Thank you?" I say uneasily, wondering why on earth he thinks I'd be particularly interested in a handful of rocks.

He half-laughs and explains, "it's sandstone."

I continue to stare at him, as if to ask what he's getting at.

He holds one of the rocks between his thumb and forefinger then kneels beside me on the bed, stretches his arm out to the wall and strikes the powdery rock down its surface, leaving a deep orange line.

"Thought you might like to brighten up the place," he says mildly.

I'm rather speechless, touched by Bane's thoughtfulness.

"I... Thank you, Bane," I say, quite excited at the prospect of a larger canvas and more effective materials. Almost immediately I set about copying my drawing of my loved ones. If feels good to finally be _doing_ something. I may not be the best artist, but let's face it- I've got plenty of time to learn.

Morning comes swiftly, sweeping through the dusty corridors and pulsing on the humid air. Bane is awake before me, of course, and he snaps half a leek and hands it to me, along with a slice of the unleavened sweet-bread.

"Cake for breakfast," I smile, peeling back a layer of the leek's skin.

"You're supposed to eat it, not dissect it," Bane says with a frown, snapping his into pieces with his teeth.

"I will, eventually," I assure, peeling at the second slightly wilting layer of flesh.

Once I've finished it I listen as Bane once again informs me he'll be out most of the day. I ask him why and he tells me he has business to conduct, before dropping to the floor in order to start his morning exercise regime. From the few cells I can see, it's apparent that most of the inmates follow this practice.

I crouch down, snap of a crumb of the sweet-bread and poke it through the bars for one of the resident mice who just happens to be scurrying past. He catches it in his sight, creeps cautiously from the shadows a moment and takes it up in his front paws, nibbling at it. I smile at him, his shining bead-like eyes focused on the confectionery in his grasp, but his ears pricked up left and right for any signs of danger. There's a phenomenal shout from the pit and the mouse flees in terror, leaving his last crumb of bread.

"You shouldn't be feeding them," Bane says, his breath heavy.

"Oh, they aren't doing any harm," I defend softly, watching the little creature hiding in the shadows, his intense orb-like eyes still gleaming. He's lucky he hasn't been eaten yet.

"We should give him a name," I say fondly, and Bane groans.

"No we should not," he pounds. "Give it a name, it becomes a pet."

"Oh, come on, Bane," I say like a pleading child. "You said I need something to keep me distracted from the harsh realities of existence."

"Vermin was not exactly what I had in mind," he says mid-press up, "that's why I got you the sandstone, so you had something to do."

I brush off his comments and think of names.

"What's the Arabic for 'brave?"' I ask, and Bane shrugs.

"I do not know."

"Yes, you do," I say whiningly, seeing through his lie.

"You wish to call a mouse 'Brave'?"

"Yes. He was brave enough to come over, wasn't he? Now, what is it? Tell me."

Bane huffs, then says, "_'Shuzah.'_"

"That'll do," I say, "Shuzah the mouse."

"Well, I'm going," says Bane, "you and your little rat friend have fun while I'm gone."

"We will," I smile as he unlocks the door, deciding not to question what he's going to do.

He re-locks it with trouble and sticks the key in his pocket- still doesn't trust me with it, I see. I watch from my position at the bars as Bane walks away from the cell.

Just before he descends the stairs, a man walking up them bumps into Bane- another man springs up behind him, then in the confusion there's a flash of silver and a gush of red, and the two men are fleeing past my cell, faces hitched by balaclavas- Bane is keeling over in a puddle of red before dropping face down the flight of stairs, I'm screaming and Shuzah the mouse is running, running as far as his tiny legs will carry him.

**AN: i hope you peeps appreciate that i'm actually learning a bit of Arabic for this story XD**

**yep. i went there. stabbed Bane. and now our still unnamed narrator if left all alone in that dastardly cell. with the creepy sex offenders all around. TUNE IN NEXT CHAPTER :O**

**ill get back to those of you with Q's soon, don't worry :3**

**R&R, really keeps me going, especially when im working around essays :d**

**love you guys!**

**xxxxx**


	9. Chapter 9: Hysteria

**AN: ****_CHICKEN._**

**That is all.**

**Chapter Nine:**

**Hysteria**

I'm hysterical. My screams fill the entire compound, ringing through my head and my entire body, causing me to claw violently at the bars, a whirlwind of chaos, as I try to throw them from their hinges. Blood, dark and red, smooths its way across the sand floor, sinking into it and infusing with the particles. The pain in my body from trying to force my way from the cell is blind, unnoticed in my pure panic. Desperate to get to him, I scream at the crowd gathering from their own cells to get me out of here, to get to Bane, to tell me where he is, but I'm ignored by all, the group of men only interested in finding out what has happened.

Sometime later I stand with my face pressed against the cold metal bars, screaming out at the prison, hysterical still. I don't know who I'm screaming for; to Bane, to the wretched prisoners or to God himself.

"You can't have him!" I actually shout out loud, angry tears cascading through my sobs.

I ignore the frustrated cries of the prisoners for silence, kicking hard at the cell door in another attempt to force it open. I jab the cut-throat razor into the lock, and when that fails result to the spatula's end, but it does no good; I pick up the metal wash basin and hurl it at the stubborn lock in an attempt to force it to break, but of course nothing happens. I fight in vain with the lock for an eternity, trying everything and anything, shouting angrily the whole time.

"You will do yourself an injury," a voice says, and I turn to see the smarmy face of the prisoner who had visited last night, and I suspect him to be the same man who visited me with a proposition in the darkness of my second night in this abyss.

"Fuck. Off," I demand through bared teeth, and he smirks slightly.

"You are going to need someone to feed you now that Bane is- uh- out of the picture."

"Where is he?!" I demand, realising the man knows of his condition, "is he alive?!"

He laughs slightly, dark eyes turning from me as he stares at the patch of drying blood down the corridor.

"You get nothing for nothing in this world," he says without answering my question, then adds, "Think about proposition."

He slinks back the way he came, calling out, "I will see you soon."

I shout after him, demanding to know of Bane's welfare, but he completely ignores me, a faint laugh trailing behind him.

I am unaware of how much time passes; all I know is that when I recover from my hysteria I am lying at the root of the cell bars, hands raw from clutching at the metal poles, eyes aching and face swollen from the constant splurge of tears.

It's pitch black.

Shuddering, I pull myself to the heel of Bane's bed, drag myself up on to it and shiver into the corner, sobs retching so forcefully through my body I fear I may break. The agony in my chest is practically unbearable, causing my entire body to convulse spasmodically. Hours pass like this, terrified and broken, begging for news of Bane- is he alive? What if he is, and no-one has bothered to help him, just left him there to die, slowly bleeding to death. It all happened so fast, feels so unreal, but I'm quite sure it was a stab to the side, just above the hip. I think back to my days in Biology class and try to map out the essential organs and their locations in my head, praying there's nothing too vital but knowing there definitely is. I pray for Bane, actually get down on my knees beside the two beds and pray, then scrape up his holy book and read a thick chunk, not even taking in one word; verse after verse, page after page, in some vain attempt to find God's favour.

_Please. Don't let him die. Don't let him be dead. _

I bundle up the skirt fabric which became a makeshift blanket for Bane on the night he was sick and haul it around my shoulders, then return to the bars. I press my face against it and try my hardest to think.

I have two options; either get out of this cell, or die of dehydration. That is a simple fact. Option two is not a course I am willing to take, which means I have to find a way out of this room.

It's clear that the cell door will not yield, and there is no other exit route. The only way out of here is if someone else gets me out, and the only other people here are the prisoners. There are only three prisoners I'd even consider trusting, and those are Bane, Andri and the old doctor; for obvious reasons, Bane will not be walking through that door any time soon. And the two medics live downstairs. I could sit around a few days and wait to see if either of them thought of me, up here alone, and came to my rescue, but the chances are slim; besides, neither is exactly in a fit condition to march around this place with the only woman in the establishment and receive no trouble like Bane did. The chances of us reaching their cell intact are practically non-existent, and that's a fate I don't desire.

I force my brain into action, searching through the clouded fog of my sorrow, and plough through my options. I decide that the only option I have, the only person who can get me out of this cell, and in turn, to Bane, is one of the other prisoners.

And I know just the man.

Night falls and the sun rises again, simmering over the sun-baked pit and rousing the men. I, however, have been sat up all night, sick with worry and attempting to consolidate my plan. It's desperate and just the thought makes me despise myself for actually planning on going through with it, but it's all I have. I'm hoping in my heart that Bane is alive and being tended to by Andri and the old doctor, but I know full well this may not be the case. All the same, I will go through with my plan regardless. If Bane is dead, God forbid, then I am also. I know that without him I'm completely vulnerable; there is no way I could hold my own against a single one of these men, and I'd rather be dead than be subjected to whatever horrors I'd be put through.

The day draws by more slowly than any other, and I spend it sat stone-still on the edge of Bane's bed, eyes locked firmly onto the opposing wall. The baked red sandstone line he drew there yesterday is dusted and dispersed by the ventilated winds, though its colour holds strong and vibrant. I keep watching it, a thousand emotions pulling and tugging inside of me, so that I feel I may explode were it not for my almost paralysed state. Four men approach the bars, even in the broad daylight, but I pay them no recognition. Eventually they drift, though I know they will return at some point.

I do not eat, though I know I should. When I eventually do bring myself to reach for the bag of flat cakes, I only manage half a sheet before discarding it outside of the cell; perhaps Shuzah the mouse will find it. It is of far more use to him than me.

Night falls empty and perilous, bringing the death of the underground city noise as men finally turn to sleep. The sound of scurrying rats and the occasional drunken shout are all that occupy the empty space, and they linger in the dying moonlight like waves crying out for the shore. I sit and wait, sit and wait for the inevitable. It arrives sooner than expected.

A thin silhouette lurking in the shadows, trailing up to the bars of the cell like some grotesque animal. As the figure approaches, I feel my muscles wriggle in displeasure, not wanting to go through with this. As the sleek face appears against the bars, I swallow back any hesitation and look up at the figure; the man from yesterday.

My first unwanted visitor.

"Have you had time to consider?" Says the smooth voice of the lean convict, his stubbled, dirty face given a pallid glow from the shadowed light of the moon.

I nod, hand reaching behind my neck uncomfortably.

He copies this action, a smirk playing on his features.

"And?" He says expectantly with his head against the bars, nose inches from mine, practically breathing his smugness onto my face.

I resist the urge to spit in his face.

"I'll do it," I say in disgust, and his smirk widens into a devilish grin which makes my stomach wretch.

"Very good," he says with raised brows. "I know how it is they say in your country- there is no time like the present."

I stare blankly at him, then demand,

"Food first."

He rolls his eyes and puts up his hand in a suggestion for me to wait. I do so, stood away from the bars, as he disappears back to his own cell. While he's gone, I take the few seconds of solitude to slip my hand into the self-made pocket of my skirt.

_Still there._

Not long after, the swaggering man returns, a bowl of the usual mess in one hand. With the other, he takes a long thin object from his pocket and draws his arm around one of the bars. He jams the cord into the lock and twists it around, lurching it forwards and backwards until it behaves itself. It takes a good few minutes, but sure enough the lock clicks and the door creaks open slightly. The prisoner grabs hold of it to avoid the noise drawing any attention, then glances left and right for any disturbance before gently opening the door. He wheedles inside and slicks the door closed behind him, but doesn't bother to lock it again. He hands me the bowl and tosses the makeshift key into the corner. I place the bowl on the unsteady makeshift table, hands shaking with nerves.

When I look back at him, the man is barely inches from my face and has a hungry look in his eye. His hands reach out for me and I remind myself to stand firm, although everything inside me is going against this.

Ravishingly, he clutches at my sides, hands moving higher and lower accordingly, and I force the squirming inside me to remain dormant, slipping my hand gently into my pocket.

_Once chance at this. You have to make it count._

I find the metal handle, grasp firmly onto it and lean further back so that the prisoner, his eyes very obviously on my chest, cannot see my weapon in his field of vision; in my own I catch a moonlight glimmer of the silver razor, carefully trying to position it, which is getting increasingly difficult as the man's hands get more adventurous. This is the catalyst for my timing, and with great force I thrust the cut-throat down upon the man, fixing it securely in the back of his leg, just beneath his knee. Before he can so much as cry out, I follow my plan through and lunge back, twizzling round and grabbing hold of the readily-placed metal basin, swing it with valour and aim to smash it into the head of the ready-to-howl convict; it hits part into his neck, the rest into the side of his head, and with a dull thud his body drops to the floor. Unsure as to whether this is related to the position of the thick blade in the crook of his calf or the impact of the weighty metal basin, I bludgeon the basin against the side of his head once more, just to be safe.

For a moment I'm dumbfounded by my success; a full day in worry and preparation, and it has passed so quickly, almost in a dream state. I can still feel the man's arms all over me, though, like creeping ivy on a terrace. It makes me feel sick, but the vibrant adrenaline in my chest pumps this out.

I look down at my legs and see a splatter of warm blood there from the perverted prisoner, whose limp body lies half-propped against Bane's bed. That thought reminds me why I did this in the first place, and I move back into action; with mild difficulty I wriggle the now unconscious form of the prisoner into the bathroom, beyond the curtain so he is hidden, then take the blanket/skirt I'd placed in there earlier and tear it, wrapping one half of a thick scraplet around one of the ceiling bars- I pray thanks that these are low so that tying up the inmate's arms isn't as difficult as it otherwise would have been. I shove a bundle of the thick fabric into his slacken mouth, stuffing it in so that if he awakes it'll be impossible for him to call attention to himself. I tie a good few layers of fabric around his mouth to seal the bundle in, just in case. I tie his legs firmly together, give him one more swift bash over the head, then slip back into the other room. Regardless of the thudding sounds, the prison is still motionless. Heart thumping, I tweak the door just enough to be able to slip out, then slick through the gap and into the shadows. I stand still a long moment, too petrified to move in case anything goes wrong, in some way stunned that I've managed to get this far. Imitating Shuzah the mouse I shiver down the corridor, a ghost in the shadows of the prison, feet almost silent as I step down the stairs. The light is far more bright down is this part of the complex, and I stay as close to the walls as possible in an attempt to avoid detection. I follow the crooked path into the caved area where I remember Andri and the old doctor were, though in the dark I realise I'm not actually sure this is the correct side. Praying it is, I creep closer to the bars, squinting in the pale moonlight in an attempt to see who's in there. This is risky, I know, but I don't have a lot of choice, as I can't see anything. Sick to the stomach, I pull up the courage and whisper,

"Andri?"

No-one responds. Of course not- my whisper was no louder than a feather touching the ground.

_"Andri?"_ I try a little louder, tapping my fingers lightly on the bar. A good five minutes later, I increase the gentle tapping to a more vibrating thud, and something stirs inside. I whisk behind a column, just in case, hear a croaked string of Eastern-European dialect and timidly step out. Thank God it's Andri.

He squints in the dark, trying to make out who the hell is disturbing him in the middle of the night, then realisation plummets him and he exhales loudly, a mix of shock and urgency, then turns his back on me and retreats into the cell.

I frown a moment, and see him return with what I pray to be a key. My prayers are answered and less than a second later I'm being hurriedly ushered inside by a half-awake Andri, who swiftly clasps the lock back together and turns to me.

"What happened to Bane?" I say desperately, still whispering, "where is he?"

"He is through there, he is fine, now _please,_ go to sleep."

Relief hits in a refreshing wave, then I demand, "I need to see him."

I move to the bars of the adjoining cell and breathe heavy sighs of relief as I see a shrouded figure lying, asleep, on a thatched cot. Only his silhouette reveals it, but even from that I can tell it's Bane sleeping there.

"What happened?" I say, though I know all the physical details; I witnessed them with my own eyes, after all.

"In the morning," Andri waves dismissively, "now is the time for sleep."

He waves me down to the floor, and though all I want to do is rush in to Bane, I restrain myself and sit down on the straw-covered floor, which seems to act as a carpet on these lower levels. Andri's frame climbs back into bed and pulls a shawl around itself, and I watch the heavy sleeping figure I've come to care so much about through the bars of the next cell.

He's safe; Peaceful. And that's all that matters; all I need to drift into a soft, heavy slumber.

**AN: So, not the most interesting chapter in the world, but a needed one. Just needed a quick n' easy way of getting her outta there. I was kinda high on lack of sleep when this was complied, so it may not make 100% sense. I did proof read it but- once again- i was sleep deprived, so if anyone spots any errors just drop me a line and i'll sort it. **

**R&R, chickens!**

**love love :3**


	10. Chapter 10: Returgent

**Chapter Ten:**

**Returgent**

**AN: J-J-J-Joker face. J-J-Joker face *insert lady GaGa noise*.**

**as The Doctor would say... ****_Allon-sy! _****(...Or Geronimo, if you're a Matt Smith lover)**

**I'll shut up now and let you get on with reading the story. Much lovecakes *kisskiss* xx**

Morning rises as refreshing as settled dew on summer's first berries. I bathe in it's radiance absorbing the sunshine through my open pores and letting it soak into my tumbled-down hair. I climb up from the floor to see that Andri, the older doctor's make-shift replacement, is still in slumber. Not wanting to wake him, I sweep across the floor to the bars of the adjoining cell, something warming inside as I see Bane's face, forehead pulled taught in an uncomfortable expression, even in sleep. I wonder if he can still feel the pain of his injury in this state.

Careful not to wake him, I slip a hand through the bars and place it on the bed sheet over his chest. His heart beats lightly against my fingertips, and I close my eyes a while, concentrating on it. Feeling that steady thump brings me more peace of mind than I thought possible in this place.

I break the bond a moment when I hear a light scritching sound from inside Bane's cell and see the old doctor sat across from him, bundle of blanket across his lap.

I smile weakly, feeling a blush creep over my ruddy cheeks. The ageing doctor gives a half-smile back, then mutters something lightly under his breath before moving over to Bane's side of the room. He plunges a cloth into a half-filled basin of water then presses the rag against the sleeping Bane's forehead, causing him to shudder awake from the shock of the stagnant cold water.

He tries to sit up, and the doctor presses his hand onto his collar, reassuring him to lie back. I stare at Bane's flustered eyes a moment, indulging in their brilliance a half-second before drawing attention to myself.

"Bane," I say, and his eyes follow beneath his knotted brow as he locks my gaze.

"You're okay," I say quickly and with immense relief, although I knew this already from Andri last night.

"I've been worried sick," I say, wanting to reach out to him again, but I restrain myself. He ignores my words, glancing about the room with his brow crossed, then says half-alert,

"How did you... he went and got you?" He tries to confirm, attempting to sit upright although it's clearly great strain.

"No-" I answer, assuming he's referring to Andri, "I managed- lie back down- I sneaked down last night."

"What?" He says, voice grumbled through pain, "...how did you-?"

"I... convinced one of the men to open the cell door, then came down here," I answer vaguely.

"...How did you _'convince'_ him?" Bane asks knowingly with his arm drawn over his eyes.

"...I... used my... womanly charms," I say with disdain, knowing that he already has guessed this. "Never mind that... are you alright?"

He groans as if to affirm this, pulling his hand to his lower back. Just on time, the old doctor reappears and gestures for Bane to sit up- he reaches for his arm but Bane refuses, talking him down and hauling his torso into sitting position with a great, agonized moan. He's shirtless again, I see, the covers of the shallow bed falling back. To the lower right of his spine is a yellowed bandage, speckled from years of reuse, bleeding through red- I look down to the bed and see an equally dark patch in the corresponding place.

"How serious is it?" I ask worriedly, and he turns his head to me nonchalantly.

"A flesh wound at best," he calls groggily, "it's nothing."

"Bane, you got_ stabbed,"_ I say expressively, shocked by how dismissive me is of the matter.

"It's nothing," he repeats in a darker tone, turning to face me so that the old doctor can inspect the stab wound, though with his poor eyesight I doubt if he's the best person for the job.

As if on cue, there is a dry sort of cough from the room I'm in and I turn to see Andri groaning to life.

"As-Salâm Alaikum," he mutters hoarsely, heaving himself from his bed.

"Wa-laikum as-Salâm," replies the old doctor as he pulls back the bandage, and Bane winces.

"I presume this will be a regular occurance,"

Andri says blankly, "your waking me up in the seething hours of the morning, with your talking."

"Sorry," I say with a half smile, watching as he blithers around the cell, searching for something, by the looks of it.

"Here we go," he says a few seconds later, picking up an old key, then he moves to the join between the two cells and sticks the key into the lock of the barred door, twisting it so that it unlocks, opening the two cells into one. Andri moves through and talks to the older doctor; "Hida, Bobby, Hida."

Waving his hand, the proud older man goes back to his work and Andri is left to stand and wait till he is finished. Andri looks up to me, catching me watching Bane.

"Are you going to stand and watch him all day or are you to come through?" He says, beckoning me through the door, "hida, Gotze- Hida! We do not have all day!- well, we do, but... that is beside the point..."

I stand upon order and move through the door, where Andri motions for me to sit on the side of the doctor's bed.

"O'pra," Andri says to the doctor, sounding slightly annoyed, then he jabbers on at him in Arabic and with a rustful retort the older man hands Andri the cloth and what appear to be tweezers.

A good ten silent minutes pass, crushed only by the occasional exhale of pain from Bane as the doctor works away at the stab wound.

At a particularly painful part, Bane flips out on Andri, and the doctor throws back with a reaming lecture, calling him a 'Budalla' several times in the process. I don't know what this means, but it doesn't sound too complimentary, and it seems to put Bane back in his place.

"Lie on your front," Andri tells Bane, who looks hideously against this idea and begins, with great difficulty, to lower himself face-down onto the bed with a groan. The doctor's assistant gives him a firm assistance by pressing against his chest until he is flat- Bane groans. Andri's hand begins working at the wounded area again, preparing to redress the wound.

These two cells, though cast further into the weathering of the sun, are individually larger than Bane's upstairs, with half-decent furnishings- hand-constructed beds, made from the wooden crates which delivered the leeks and oats- and more crates stacked upon each other to serve as chairs and desks; luxury compared to our modest cardboard tower.

"It's nice in here," I say, smiling at the interior.

"'Nice?!'" Scoffs Andri, "come now, do not lie to an old man. I have seen nice- up there. This is not nice."

"Well you know, compared with-"

I stop mid-sentence and look to Bane, blushing. "Sorry."

"Well, it will be far less 'nice' now there will be four people living in it- more beds means less space, but sacrifices must be made, I suppose..."

I count up the people in the room in my head again, reviewing what he's saying.

"You mean... I can stay down here?"

"Well of course, where else would you go, back to Bane's empty cell? Ha ha. You would not last five minutes. I must admit, the thought of stealing the key to that place off Bane and selling it on to the highest bidder did cross my mind- the key to the only woman this place has seen in six years would surely sell well- but my conscience did catch the better of me."

I feel slightly sick at that, and unsure of how to react to it.

Half an hour or so later, Bane has been sorted and is now lying down on his back, looking utterly exhausted, eyes closed although he is not in sleep, with an expression of determined thought glazing his features. He is clearly in a great deal of pain from the stab wound inflicted to his side, but seems intent on masking this fact- not once does he mention it, simply lies in silence.

I sit opposite him on a wooden crate, feeling awkward due to the absence of Andri, who proclaimed not five minutes ago that he was starving and was off to find food. When I offered to come along and help him, he made a sound which suggested this was the most ridiculous notion he ever heard, stated firmly that he would be far better off without my presence at his side and danced from the cell, reminding the old doctor to lock the cell behind him.

In the silence, I bite at my already worn down nails of my fingers, blotting one on the side of my rather filthy skirt as it starts to bleed. My feet kick rhythmically at the straw covering the floor, which reminds me of the cage of an animal- but then again, that is what this is, isn't it? A cage. Filled with those not deemed fit to walk the sweet surface of the Earth. The condemned.

A sudden torrent of abuse hurls down the stairs, drawing the attention of all the inmates who are awake and waking the rest of them. All heads turn to see a skinny little stubbled man hurtle into our section of the prison web, expression furious and with a scrap of my skirt fabric clinging to his ankle.

His eyes find me first, and I recognize him as the prisoner I used to escape the cell upstairs. Wrists red raw, he does indeed look as though he has spent the night trying to work his way out of the bonds I'd set him in; I mentally compliment myself on my previously undiscovered knot-tying skills.

Face raging, he spits something in tangled Arabic through the bars in my direction, and Bane revives from his limbo state and slowly manages to sit upright- face contorted, he turns his head slowly towards the intruder at the bars and spins a web of words in his direction, encasing the man to paralysis from his angered state. Far more calmly than before, the inmate at the cell front defends himself to Bane, supposedly explaining the situation, his aggravation heightening again mid-sentence as he gestures angrily to me, at which Bane talks him down again; for a second he looks as though he's going to attempt standing up, but his expression changes and he's clearly decided against it.

They talk a further five minutes or so, before the thin man turns from the bars, expression still fiery with annoyance, spits on the ground then slumbers his way back up the sloping stairs.

"Hallelujah that he's gone," I say, rolling my eyes in the departing man's direction.

Bane stays quiet, watching the man's back as he finally disappears into the upper levels of the complex.

"He told me what you did," he says. I sense a slight tinge of accusation in his voice.

"What do you mean?" I ask, trying not to sound offended.

"The way you lured him in," Bane replies, looking at me now. "made him think you would..."

He doesn't finish the sentence; he doesn't have to. There's almost timid revulsion encased behind his dark eyes.

"There are far better ways you could have gone about getting out," he says, voice sounding a little disgusted, as though I'm in the wrong.

"Like what?" I ask. He gives no response, just stares out of the cell bars without giving any reaction.

"It got me out of there," I say defensively when I realize he isn't planning on responding, "it_ worked."_

"And what if it hadn't?" Bane snaps. "Do you have any idea what could have- would have happened-"

"Of course I do!" I say in a raised voice, "but what was I supposed to do, just sit up there and wait to starve to death?!"

"That wouldn't happen," Bane says, head now bowed, "I wouldn't have let that happen; you know this. Andri-"

"-planned on selling the key to the cell, Bane. Didn't you hear him earlier? The fact of the matter is, I did what I had to. Yes, it was risky, but I didn't have any other options. So- please- don't look at me like I've done something wrong. Just don't do that."

I look back to Bane to find his expression one of pain- physical pain, and I feel instantly guilty for arguing with him when he's in such a state. I snap my eyes shut and draw away from the world.

The silence has plagued the dingy cell since Andri departed wafts through again, festering in the corners and putrefying the already dense air. I bat it away with the inner workings of my mind and block out everything else, veering into the sanctuary of my own thoughts.


	11. Chapter 11: The Physician's Cell

**Chapter Eleven:**

**The Physician's Cell**

**AN: apparently light switches don't work in dreams- so go and try it, Lucid people. Just an interesting' factoid to start of today's chunk of 'condemned'. Hope you'll enjoy, leave a review if you wish! :D**

"Is he okay out there?" I ask Andri, digging up another spatula of oats from the bowl in my lap. I refer to the retired doctor, who is sat cross-legged on a wooden crate outside of the cell, eyes closed, enjoying the heat of the new day. Bane still sleeps- something I find strange, as he is usually awake at the crack of dawn- but his recent injury seems to have taken its toll.

"Yes, he is," Andri affirms, "he spends many hours each day out there. It is a quiet life- I think just watching the prison move by- being able to see that things here do still actually change- it is soothing to him. Keeps his mind at ease, I believe."

I nod. It has been difficult to shove off Andri's comment about considering selling the key to the cage I was trapped in, but I've managed it, even if it does slightly tether like the sword of Damocles over our interactions.

"Is he okay with the others?" I ask. "I mean- none of them give him any trouble, do they?"

Andri does not quite catch the meaning of what I said, so I rephrase it in a clearer tone and he nods and gives answer.

"They will not bring any harm upon the doctor, no no. He has served the men here well over the years- dressed the wounds of most, saved the lives of many, especially in his younger years. None here would care to dishonour him."

I smile in the direction of the old doctor- his head is leant back, the corners of his mouth creased into a smile as he absorbs the heat and vibrancy of the day.

"Is this your Koran?" I ask Andri, and he nods.

"Technically it is bobby's," he says, motioning to the older man sat outside, "but we share, as there is only one. Though I cannot say it has been used often lately."

"So you're both Muslim," I confer, wiggling my feet in the straw again.

"Yes," Andri concedes. "Though more so in spirit than action... It is hard to keep the faith in a place like this. Do you agree?"

I think a moment, then answer carefully.

"Yeah... Bane said I shouldn't focus on that kind of stuff, anyway."

"Why not?"

"He said that it makes it worse- being locked down here, I mean. Isn't good in a place like this. "

Andri frowns.

"You will find that Bane struggles to see the good in most things."

I look over to his sleeping figure, hard expression and still as stone.

"Do not let him dictate your life," Andri reminds me, and I frown.

"I wouldn't," I say, "he wouldn't do that."

My feet tangle in the yellow straw, twiny and brittle; it clings to my rough sandals and I concentrate on trying to twist it off.

"You will tire quickly, being amongst us old men," says Andri.

I scoff, then applaud, "don't be stupid, you're not _old."_

There's a somewhat sad pause, then Andri looks right at me.

"I feel it," he frowns seriously. "As deep as the marrow in my bones. Next to you, I am ancient; I envy that of you, miss. You are young; young enough to carry the glow youthfulness brings... what a waste that you should be forced to spend it away down here."

"You're not old," I establish again. "Neither is the doctor- he can't be that old- sixty?"

Andri smiles, barely lifting his eyes.

"He is barely past 50."

I'm shocked, and look out to watch the ancient-looking doctor, weathering in the sun- perhaps it is the mans semi-blindness which makes him seem so frail. Or maybe the way Andri behaves so protectively of him; or perhaps that he is so quiet and private.

"The years have not been kind to Bobby," Andri confirms. "To any of us. Even Bane- with all his youth and valour- you can see it. Can you not? Behind his eyes. Those eyes carry the burdens of men a thousand times over." He pauses, seemingly dwelling on his own words.

"And another thousand times, with Bobby, I fear."

"...'Bobby?'" I ask, trying to steer the conversation into less tremulous waters. It is not a very Arabic-sounding name, after all, and is deserving of some questioning.

"Oh," Andri starts, seeming to have forgotten himself, "it is a term for 'father' in the language of my people. Affectionate, you might say. It has stuck with most others now, also."

"Bobby," I mime, rolling the appointed name around on my tongue. Bobby still sits peaceful, even undeterred by a nearby fight which sounds as though it has broken out on the second level.

"Even them," says Andri, pointing at two figures huddled together near the Doctor- I recognise them as the two young boys who were sent down not too many days ago- "you'll see it on their faces, soon. In their movements and their entire demeanour- something just- goes. Poof, gone. It is sad, to see something full of life fall apart. You will understand, soon."

It's sad to think about things like this, but I suppose they must be true. He's right about Bane being older than his looks and years would deceive- and right about everything else, as well.

"How long?" I ask, "until it happens to me, do you think?"

Andri smiles. "Oh, I think you've spark enough to last you yet. You'll outlive all of us in spirit, mark me."

Bane awakes then like a jutting car engine, starting bolt upright with a thick growl then slamming back down again as the pain from his injury takes hold. Clutching his side, he bites into the fabric on his sleeve, presumably to stop himself from screaming out. I notice he still wears his sandals, as though making himself prepared to spring up into a sudden sprint if needed.

He doesn't look like he'll be sprinting anywhere for a long time.

"Are you alright?" I ask in horror, sweeping over to his side. He's still biting away the pain, but when he finally seems to recover and look over to me, his eyes say,_ stupid question._

It is only now that the one-sided argument I had with him comes into place, and I feel ashamed of my outburst. I want to apologise, I really do, but the words can't seem to find their way past my lips, held back by some sticky sense of self-pride.

Instead of doing the morally right thing and apologising, I sit back opposite him on the edge of the doctor's bed in silence.

"So," says Andri, fending off the impending silence, "what are we going to do about this impending boredom I have warned you of?"

I roll my shoulders, not having an answer. I look around the room uncomfortably, then catch sight of the television monitor drilled to the high left of the outside cell area.

"Well, is there anything good on TV?" I suggest with a half-smile.

"Why yes, if your idea of good is two overtly pompous Arabian newsreaders recounting the dog-bone conditions of their country in a language you have little grasp of."

"Give her some sandstone and a wall," Bane mutters heavily, "let her draw. It will pass the time, if nothing else."

"Jo jo jo, she is not defiling my walls. This place is unpleasant enough without her scrawlings making it look like a children's nursery. She can find something else- something useful."

"Who's _'She,'_ the Cat's mother?!" I exclaim indignantly, one hand grazing my hip. Both Bane and Andri stare at me, Bane's face hard and tired, Andri's confused. I realise he hasn't understood the saying.

"Never mind," I huff, burying the side of my face in my hand.

"Think of something," Andri says a few minutes later, "while I-" he stands- "go for a walk. Fresh air will do me good, I think."

Andri walks out, throwing me the cell key behind him, and I lock it as he moves over to the older doctor, Bobby, and pats him on the shoulder. The two talk a moment before Andri continues his walk, and I turn back to the cell. Awkward in the silence, I walk through the mid-section door to Andri's room where I sleep, and meaninglessly tidy things- straightening the make-shift furniture and gathering the eating utensils- just for something to keep my hands busy with. Just so it looks like I've got something to do.

"Stop that," Bane says through the silence, and I do for a moment. Then I continue, collecting up the spatulas and laying them neatly beside the empty bowls.

"Stop what?" I say innocently, and he huffs before answering,

"That menial shuffling. It irritates me; there's no need for it, so don't do it. Sit."

Imposed upon by his tone, I move back through to his and Bobby's room of the cell and do as he says. Sat diagonally from him, feeling brave enough to remind him of something that's been bothering me since last night.

" You still haven't told me who it was," I say, referring to the stabbing.

Bane doesn't answer for a long while. I decide he must have opted to ignore me, and just as I go to prompt him further he does speak. But not with an answer; with a question.

"Does it matter?"

I stare at him. He's lying flat now, eyes closed, head tilted towards the ceiling. Expression one of pain and general discomfort.

"Of course it matters," I say, almost disbelieving of his attitude towards the whole situation. "You could have died."

More silence. A shivery breath from Bane's chest as he convulses against a rush of pain, then more nothingness.

"Just tell me."

He loosens the tightness of his muscles and opens his eyes, their dark iris' staring up towards the cobwebbed ceiling._ It's a miracle I haven't seen any spiders yet,_ I think gladly. Things with more than four legs tend to bode ill in my company.

"It was Dandachi," Bane says, blunt as a worn hammer.

"...Who?" I ask, completely unaware of the name.

"See? You asks questions you know you can't understand the answers to."

I hate it when he belittles me; but I try not to show it.

"Just explain. Please." My words sound harsher than I meant them.

"I planned to fight him," Bane says. "Yesterday, in fact. It was all arranged."

"Fight him?!" I say in outrage, "Bane, why, you can't- couldn't! After what happened the other day-! You're still bloodied from the last fight, and your jaw- I can't believe you were going to go and fight! And after all Andri said, he warned you about-"

"Do not_ preach _to me," Bane says with a venomous frown imbedded on his face, waving one hand out.

"It's Just I can't believe-!"

I pause, take a deep breath._ Think before you go mouthing off_, I tell myself.

"So... what was it about?" I question tactically, veering off the dangerous path I seem to have been heading for.

"I think it to be Dandachi's way of backing out from the fight," Bane proclaims. I shake my head in disbelief, rubbing my temples with my fingertips.

"But there were two of them," I remember. "Who was the other one?"

"Oh, I doubt Dandachi would have done the job himself- could have been anybody. You can hire anyone down here for anything if you have something they think they need."

"But why would he have backed out in the first place?" I ask inquisitively.

"He probably drank away his wares," Bane explains. "We were betting- if I won, he'd give me the alcohol he had."

"That's what the fight was about? Booze?!" I say in disappointment; care-free as he was when he was last intoxicated, it is not an experience I- or himself, I assume by his reaction- would like to go through again.

"I was going to sell it," he justifies.

"For what?" I ask, wondering what down here could be that worthy of risking fatal damage.

"Well, do you want to live off nothing but oats until the next drop off?" Bane says, bringing a hand round by his wound. "And maybe some fabric; that way you could fix yourself a change of clothes."

I sigh that it's all come back to me. Fighting, to get things for me. Being stabbed as a result. Always me- my fault.

"You wouldn't have to do that," I say, shaking my head.

"Actually," he says, eyes closed and now smirking, "I was thinking more for my own benefit. In all honesty, you are starting to stink."

"Well, thanks," I say sarcastically, a little offended even though I know it's true.

"You hardly smell of cheese and biscuits yourself."

"God, what I would do for cheese and biscuits," Bane exclaims, eyes closed at the thought of the food. I start to desperately crave it myself, despairing as I think of the bowl of withered oats that await me later, as they will for every meal.

A sudden horrible thought comes over me, and I try to choke it back but it passes my lips before I can catch it. Are you sure it was this Dandachi?" I ask, trying to be subtle.

"Quite," he answers- but somehow he knows there's more to my inquisitiveness than just confirmation. "Why do you ask?"

I find it difficult to say. "I was just thinking- maybe- that guy. The one who I- tricked into letting me out. You don't think-?"

"The whole world does not revolve solely around you," Bane says firmly- though not unkindly.

"I know," I affirm, "It just seems... Odd, don't you think. I mean, he was loitering around the cell for a few days, and suddenly you get stabbed and he's there almost instantly- he said-"

"It does not matter what he said," Bane utters with a shake of his head, "I know it was Dandachi."

I let it go, but the skinny prisoner's words still stay burned in my mind;

_Now that Bane is- uh- out of the picture._

It just seems suspicious to me," I say.

Bane shrugs slightly and closes his eyes.

I stand a minute or two later with an exhausted sigh, and ask him if he needs anything. He says no, then, with extraordinary effort, drags his dead-weight torso into an upright position and begins lifting himself from the bed.

"What are you doing?!" I shriek, suddenly sick with worry, "you can't just get up and start strolling about-!"

"I'm not strolling anywhere," he says, putting his arm across me as I rush to make him sit back down, "I'm going to the bathroom; leave me alone, woman."

Hesitantly I step back, but keep near him as he makes his way to the room in the back of the Doctor's cell.

"Let me help you-"

"I'm fine, just- sit down."

I move the wooden panel acting as a door from the room's doorway and he thanks me and steps through, and I pull it back.

"If you need anything-"

"I'm quite sure I'll be alright," he says, and I can imagine the roll in his eyes even though I cannot see his face.

A minute or so later; "are you alright in there?"

"For God's sake, moment's privacy wouldn't go amiss!"

He lurches back into Bobby's room in a slumberous way- at which point I've flung myself down onto his bunk- which is stained with dark blood- and drawn my knees up in horror, squirming. I actually feel a little sick, and pinch my eyes tight.

"What's wrong?" Bane asks in a weary tone, clearly reading my distress. I point a finger to the floor, where a huge, wispy spider stands, his tiny black body perched upon his vast spindle-like legs.

Bane stares first at the large arachnid below him, then at my obviously distressed face. He seems unable to link the two together, unable to comprehend how the first could possibly lead to the latter. When he does connect the two, I see it in his eyes and he says, "stand up."

"No no," I say testily, itching all over and in a state of almost panic, "no way. Get it out, Bane, please-"

"An insect," Bane says, voice almost stern, "nothing more than that. Stand up, and stop being so pathetic. There are far worse things down here than that thing. It fears you more than you fear it."

"Just get it out- I hate them, Bane, it's making me actually feel sick, please just get rid of it, please."

It makes a jittering movement upon one of its legs, and I physically jolt, squeezing my eyes shut and rubbing the skin of my upper arms frantically.

Bane seems to reluctantly accept my fear, coming to terms with the fact that I am in genuine distress, and steps with difficulty over to the creature, which remains frozen. I sit in the same state of paralysis, body pulled in as close to me as I can manage, attempting to cover every inch of bare skin in my paranoia that the spider will touch me. Bane raises his sandaled foot.

"No," I cry out quickly, "don't kill it!"

Bane, foot still in mid-air, glares his eyes over to me and they hold absolute disbelief.

"You despise its existence," he says with a shake of the head, "yet you do not want to eradicate it from here."

I get that uncomfortable feeling he's imposed upon me so many times; feeling small and idiotic just through the tone of his voice.

"You can't kill it-! even if it is just a spider, it's still a life- and it hasn't done anything, just- get it out of the cell, put it somewhere else," I say, trying to justify my reasoning.

"That is not the way to get rid of your problems," Bane says.

I look down reluctantly, to see the spindle-legged black creature quiver under the looming shadow of Bane's shoe.

"Don't-"

With a resounding crack, Bane slams his foot down on top of the frozen creature, smacking the life from it in an instant. He slowly raises it back up, wiping a smear of royal blood into the straw beside the flattened carcass. Bane turns his back with a creakingly slow hobble and fashions himself back onto his bed, shooing me from it.

I return to Andri's half of the cell, feeling more solemn now than I thought I ever could feel over a simple- grotesque, even- spider.

"You have to stamp out your problems, to save them haunting your future," he explains through his pain-hardened logic.

"By whatever means necessary."

I wrap one of Andri's blankets around my weathered shoulders and shiver, even through the Arabian heat.

**AN: Rawrr!**

**Thank you so much for the faves, reviews and follows! If I could kiss you all, I would, but alas...! And a big **

**shout-out to guest D, Banelover, livinitup2012 and anyone else who had left a review on a guest visit, much love to you all. If any guests have any questions, just leave them in the reviews section and I'll answer them there :)**

**Hope you're enjoying so far and continue following the story guys!**

**One more thing, someone messaged me a couple o' days back ****_saying 'you cant use that picture of Bane for the story ID because you don't own it',_**** something along those lines… just so we don't get this confusion, its from my deviant art gallery, under 'Gotham's Reckoning' by Shazammize. ****Take a gander. im not gonna steal someone elses work- I have my own brain ideas to use :p message me your DA links and i'll gander at your galleries ;)**

**Keep on being amazing, peeps, and remember to turn on a lightswitch in your sleep!**

**L.L.A.P! **

**kiss kiss :***


	12. Chapter 12: Blood Soaked

**Chapter Twelve:**

**Blood Soaked**

**AN: why I say, who's that you're introducing, Wizadora? Another canon character, is it? Planning on giving them a back story entirely of your own making, are you? I salute you, dear self. Now, after that Gollum-style self-discussion has been addressed may we proceed with the story. ONWARDS, GOOD STEED!**

Two more days pass, eventless. Bane struggles to recover from his injury, receiving constant tellings off from Andri, filled with cries of 'Budalla!' every time he attempts to sit up or stand. Andri has taken food-gathering duties, and every time he's absent from the cell, Bane takes the opportunity to sit up. Bobby rolls his eyes, but doesn't tell Andri.

Now is one of those times. Around mid-day, according to the far-out sundial- Bobby, the old doctor, is sat picking at the threadbare fabric of the shirt he's wearing. Bane sits silently, upright on the edge of his bed, eyes closed and head tilted downwards and to the left in deep thought._ He must be so bored,_ I think to myself. He's used to being able to go out, do his crunches and press ups- or even just rifle through the books. The stubble on his face is growing through thick now- give it a couple more days and it will have awarded itself the title of a beard. He can't even shave by himself- I can tell he hates not being independent._ He must be bored sick,_ I reinforce in my head.

I know I am.

Andri appears at the cell door, humming to himself. I grab the keys to the cell and pass them through to him- he unlocks the door and comes through, one arm carrying a pot of oats, two cloves of garlic balanced on its steaming lid, the other equipped with a bundle of worn looking burlap-type fabric.

"What's that?" I ask, as Andri passes the things he'd been holding over to me, then goes to lock the door.

"Clothes," Andri answers, "well- they will be. Bane and I were talking-" Bane tilts his head in our direction, though his eyes remain closed- "and he says how a change of clothes will do you good- lie down, Bane! How many times, Budalla?!- anyway, you can use this and make something for yourself, yes?"

"Yeah- thank you, Andri! And- and you, Bane."

Bane grunts something, lying back down under duress of Andri's instruction and pouring a forearm over his arm to block out the light.

"Serve up the food," Andri says to me, and I oblige, handing a bowl over to the doctor first (something that Andri reminded me to do out of respect for the Arabian culture), then Andri himself, then set another aside Bane and finally one for myself. The smell of the garlic cloves is heaven after more than three days of nothing but plain oats, and strange as the taste may be, I halve each clove and crack a half over each of the bowls.

Andri has his usual battle with Bane- he attempts to help him eat, but Bane doesn't take well to the prospect of being spoon-fed; he welds himself into a half-slouched sitting position against Andri's rough cries of "Budalla!" (Which, by Andri's frequent use of it whenever Bane does something he disapproves of, I take to mean something along the lines of 'stupid'). Bane motions for me to hand him his portion of the porridge oats and I do so swiftly; he thanks me then tilts it to his face, not bothering to use the spatula at it's side.

I take to eating my own, as Bobby and Andri engage in a quick-paced Arabic conversation, in which I recognise the words 'hot' and 'no' only. My lack of grasp on the Arabic language is definitely something I'll have to improve, I've come to realise, if I mean to get by here. Yesterday I asked Bane to teach me a bit, and he managed to teach me _'do you speak English?', 'thank you' _and_ 'I don't understand' _before frowning and resolving to sleep in an attempt to ease the pain the wound has caused him. I've forgotten all three. _You're hopeless,_ I tell myself.

Not long later, there's a raucous uproar from outside. I walk closer to the bars curiously, and can see the blur of figures which signifies a fight; one of the organised ones, like the one Bane was involved in. This is the third one in the last two days.

"Here we go again," I say, sitting back down and closing my eyes to try and shut out the noise of the complex.

"_Oui_?" Andri asks, forgetting himself and reverting to his national tongue before correcting himself and asking, "water?"

"Yes, please," I say, and he moves to the bathroom in the back, which, like Bane's cell upstairs, is where the water trough is kept; perhaps not the most sanitary of places, but preferred to having it in the warmth and dust of the main cell area.

"Where does it come from?" I ask as Andri offers me a wooden cup of the liquid, and he sloshes his own into a swirling pool before explaining, "there is a tap, around by where the food is cooked- it is fixed to an aqua-duct. One of the few benefits of being so deep rooted in the ground- the water is un-rationed and mineral abundant."

I nod in interest, then ask, "but won't it run out eventually? Aqua-ducts are big natural sources, but it can't last forever, surely; its gotta run out some time."

"You are right," Andri acknowledges. "And when that day comes, pray the occasional guards of this place are on watch and take pity, or we all wither from thirst, tongues dead to the root."

This thought terrifies me, and I remember to think more carefully before next rinsing my hair whilst washing in the wetroom-style restroom.

The fight which began before our conversation doesn't last long; soon enough the crowd which had gathered in order to witness the event, armed with bettings and catcalls and jeers, disperse in order to find other means of occupying their time, disappointment in their eyes at the fact that the day's only form of entertainment has been and gone. In their place are only the victor and his failed opponent; the winner takes whatever prize he has claimed from the defeated man, then leaves him slumped on the floor. As soon as the crowned man has left, a smaller individual scarpers into the scene, taking the slumped beaten soul up underneath his arms and helping him to his feet. An arm around the other, the two men drag themselves away from the centre of the pit. They head in the direction of our cell complex, and Andri suddenly drums himself into action.

"Hida," he calls to us three other cell inhabitants, "there is work to be done. You- he points to me- "over there, in my half of the cell."

"How come?" I ask, obeying the order all the same.

"We are having guests, by the looks of him," Andri says, flicking his gaze to the two approaching men. Now that they are closer, I recognise one of them- the smaller of the two, with his arm hoisting the other, is one of the two young Arabic boys who had been thrown down here after me. I realise that, underneath the blood and general raggedness of the seconds flesh, he must be the other.

The pair reach the gates, the more able-bodied of the two presumably asking to be let in. Andri obliges, helping the beaten one through and setting him down on the Doctors bed diagonally from Bane. Andri shoos the able-bodied boy back outside, and he protests before accepting his position and standing the other side. Bobby is up and rifling through the old scratched first aid kit, whilst Andri settles the boy and moves into the bathroom to collect some water. With a rag which is in good need of a wash or two, he begins to wipe the blood from the young man's face.

"Is he going to be okay?" I ask, a hand up round one of the bars to the adjoining cell as the young boy outside jabbers on in Arabic at Andri, who talks him down.

"Yes- he will be alright. He is just in shock, that's all- Budalla, lie!" I look over to the part of the cell which usually warrants cries of '_Budalla_', and see for sure that Bane has once again tried to sit up, disturbed by the noise.

As he reluctantly lies back down, the bloodied young man returns to awareness; his bewildered eyes follow the inside of the cell, ignoring for a moment the calls of his companion from the other side of the bars.

"Barsad!" Shouts the boy outside, and the light seems to spark in his eyes again. He achily turns his head to his friend, and gives a blood-grizzled smile.

The two converse in Arabic, Andri occasionally giving his own input. As Andri smears away the damage, it becomes clear that the boy's shoulder is the real problem. He cries out in agony when Andri pulls down on the dislocated socket, expressing the need for it to be refounded. The cell tenses a moment as Andri counts down from three in Arabic, everyone preparing themselves for the resounding grinding of bone that is sure to follow. When it hits, the bellow of pain from its receiver almost echoes, his muscles jolting spasmodically, and it is easy to see the empathetic revulsion on everyone's cooed faces, including Bane's.

Tears of resolute pain prick in the corners of the eyes of the young man, though he upholds appearance and tames them into nothingness.

"Their names are Barsad and Firdos," Andri tells without prompting, tearing down the sleeve of the beaten young man, Barsad.

Bane turns his head and questions the two, and the boy outside, Firdos, answers him with the word "Dandachi."

"Dandachi?" I repeat, looking at Bane, "isn't that the guy you were going to fight?"

"Yes," Bane answers. "It seems he is able enough to fight now, though." He asks the beaten boy something in the foreign tongue and the boy shakes his head briskly in reply.

Bane nods in acknowledgement, but doesn't seem to feel a need to share his findings with me.

Twenty minutes later and Andri is preparing to send the boys away. My fingers are twisting the tails of twine imbedded in the fabric sourced for me by Andri, tugging and wiggling each strand in order to make it smooth. I can tell the fabric isn't going to be the most comfortable of things, but I'd rather this than to remain in the same clothes another day- they are stained and flat-out greasy, though I think the exposure to an oven of sweaty men, my own barely-washed body and the mild reek of badly-disposed of sewage for the past few days has helped my tolerance of the odorous quality which fills the soggy air.

Whilst Andri, the doctor and the two boys converse in an agitated manner, I can feel Bane's eyes on me. Even though I haven't looked up to consummate this, I can feel his stare piercing my skin, observant and mimical. A faint blush bubbles in my cheeks and I work to smooth it off, furrowing my fingers still through the well-worn twine.

"Andri, do you mind if I wash this first?" I ask, holding the fabric up to my nose and breathing in its stale smell. The man turns, startled by the rupture in his conversation, then twists his head to the left in an awkward motion before nodding stiffly.

"Yes, yes. Bring it out here- the water tankard- and do it by the bars. That way it will drain easier."

"Alright- thanks," I say.

"No problem with me," Andri responds, tightening the splint-like structure he has made for Barsad onto the boy's arm, "conserve the aqua duct, or have clean clothes- being a girl I am not surprised by your choice."

I am unsure as to the tone of his statement, but proceed with washing the clothes all the same.

Dragging the half-full metal basin out by the cell doors, I dunk in the handful of burlap-style fabric and sink my hands into its folds, making sure every fibre of it is sodden with the cool liquid. I wonder about soap, asking Andri whether or not there's any about the place. He laughs half-heartedly.

"You should be so lucky," he says, brushing his greying hair back with the heel of his hand. The boy outside the bars asks Andri something quickly, and the man replies; upon hearing the boys next speech, he widens his eyes and turns back to me.

"He says they have some in their cell," Andri tells me. "He says, if you wash their clothes also you can have it."

"Fine," I nod, glad of something productive to do. The boy outside the bars makes his excuse and goes off to get the soap; when he returns, he is shirtless, skinny dark frame blustered in the baked sun, skin agitated by the rough material of his shirt. He awkwardly pokes his hand, stuffed with fabric, through the bars, and I smile in a docile manner and sort through the fabrics, unfolding them to reveal the lump of soap. It's mangled and broken, more rubbery than soapy- made of lard, I assume- but good enough all the same. I only wish the water was hot in order to break down the oils and dirt in the fabrics easier. Maybe next time I could ask Andri to have some boiled over the small fire that clusters at night- the social gathering I am never permitted to enter- or ask for the residue from the cook's pot?

The injured lad is instructed to take his shirt off and manages to with great strain over his injured arm, and Andri gives me the blood-specked shirt- I resolve to wash it last.

I collect the bundle of Andri's worn clothes from the back corner of his room, the unpleasant stale smell lingering. I move through to the opposing cell and gather up Bobby's clothes as well. Bane, I realise, has nothing- I decide I'll make him something with the new fabric- there should be enough for a shirt or something. He's been designated without one the past few days, as the one he was wearing when he came down here had to be thrown because of the blood from the stabbing, and all the others are in the cell upstairs. He didn't have his back brace, either, something which Andri sees fit to constantly remind him of, and Bane is starting to suffer from it, the pain in his back no longer just the jolts from the stab wound.

As I work through the clothing, I feel oddly refreshed; having something to physically do, instead of just sitting meaninglessly, is invigorating; even if it is just washing smelly clothing. As the men chat away, I drizzle my hands through the worn fabrics, working with the soap to remove any stains, but mainly the smell. I glance up and catch the smaller of the two boys- Firdos, outside- looking at me. It's only for a split second, and he flits his eyes away instantly, but I notice all the same, instinctively pulling up the hem of my top. It seems the novelty of having a female on the premises has still not worn off.

The two boys leave, not long after, thanking Andri for his skills and arranging to pick up their freshly-washed clothing later in the week. The cell seems peacefully quiet again without them, and for a while it's refreshing, but then it becomes stagnant and unwelcome again. I try to start up a conversation about how nice it'll be for us all to have fresh clothes, a set to wash and another to wear, but it crumbles and disintegrates within minutes. Andri makes his excuses and evacuates, followed shortly by Bobby, who is off in search of something alcoholic.

Bane and I sit in the silence. I look at him; eyes closed, hands held in front of him. As usual, he sat up the second Andri left the twin cell, propped up on the edge of his bed.

I plunge the last of the wash items- Barsad's bloodied shirt- into the water, feeling a little sick as the liquid turns from greyish to pink as the crusted blood hydrates once more.

I try to take my mind off it by trying to crush the quietness of the cell again.

"You'll look like a caveman if you don't shave your face soon," I say with a smile.

Bane ever so slowly lifts his eyes, as though I've just distracted him from the formation of some revolutionary influential idea.

"And what do you suppose I do about that?" He says, though I can tell he doesn't really want to hear my answer, whatever it may be.

"I'm sure Andri and Bobby have got one somewhere- it must be in the bathroom, I guess."

"I can barely stay awake, I hardly think putting a cut-throat razor in my hand is a good idea," he mocks, closing his eyes again.

He's been so cold the last few days; granted, I don't really know him- after all, I've been here less than a month- but I feel like I do. And this behaviour- though I've already seen he has elements of a distant attitude- seems wrong. I try to think of what I've done to wrong him over these last few days.

What haven't I done would probably be a better question, what with all the trouble I've caused him. Guilt strides forwards within me and throws a damp cloth over my heart, weighing me down from the inside.

"I could do it for you," I say quietly.

He stays silent, as if I hadn't even spoken.

"Bane?" I say, in case he didn't hear me. "I can do it. I'll go find the razor- and we can use some of the new soap, yeah?"

"I'd rather you didn't," he says coldly.

"Don't be daft," I smile, trying to pass off the chill in his voice. I stand up, sweepingly dry my hands on one of the newly washed garments and approach him, motionless in his sitting position.

"You're starting to look uncared for," I half-joke in an attempt to lighten his dark mood, reaching my hand out to his cheek.

"It'll only take five minutes-"

Before it meets the side of his face, Bane snaps his forearm up and forcefully grips hold of my wrist in a death lock, clamping me to the spot. The strength in my arm caves in on itself, the limb going limp in his grasp from sheer surprise at his action. His eyes glare into mine, caverns of swirling burnished black which engulf with a charring fire. They speak to me like no words could.

_Don't touch me._

I don't know how long we stay like that, but it's some time until I regain the strength to pull away. As I do, his grasp resists the pull a little, until he too awakens his consciousness and releases me. I turn away from him, abandoning my plans to collect the razor and stride, shaken, back to my place on the floor, facing out onto the prison complex.

I slip my hands quietly back into the cold wash water and massage the remaining fabric. I realise my hands are shaking, and my throat seems to have closed in on itself, breath caught somewhere below it. I try to control the trembling, refusing to let him see what a dramatic influence that simple gesture has had on me, thinking about the yellow ring of bruises which still eclipse my upper arm. I wonder if I might cry, if shock at my behaviour might overwhelm me, but luckily it seems that no tears are to stab my eyelids. A low sound comes from Bane, somewhere between an exhale and a grumble.

I return to scrubbing the blood from the clothes of Barsad, accepting the dimming silence of the metal cage as my fate.

**AN: you have a decision to make, my pretties; there's going to be a little fast-forward to the future; I'm leaving it up to you how long you want it to be. Between two weeks to two months, just leave a comment in the reviews as to what timeframe you think would be best, feel free to leave a reason why if you wish to do so J**

**R n' R if you so please, and thank you all very much for your support :D**

**Love Wizadora xx**


	13. Chapter 13: Friction

**Chapter Thirteen:**

**Friction**

**So guys, I've read through your comments (thanks a lot for them, by the way :3) and I've decided to jump the time frame by two weeks, and then (as this was, when I began writing it originally two short chapters), move it into two months (where the seconds chapter originally began ;))**

**Although I've proof-read a couple of times, there may be a thing or two which doesn't quite make sense with the context; if so, just hit me around the face via the reviews area/private message and I'll sort it out :D **

**Enjoy!**

Two weeks pass. Those in ownership of the prison decide not to send in the food parcels at the end of the first week, and food has become increasingly bare, practically rationed; feeding a prison of hundreds on the scraps of month-old food isn't proving an easy task. Hunger has become a stagnant feeling over the last few days, with speech disgruntled and unwanted by all. Everyone seems snappy and on edge; fights more frequent, but most men are not their usual strong selves and therefore don't put in too much effort with their swings; no broken bones for Andri to attend to.

There have been no propositions from strangers in the middle of the night over these last couple of weeks either; a blessing amongst the despair. It seems no-one has the energy even for _that._

But this morning, I awake to cries of refreshment; the parcels have arrived, stocked with more than their usual amount. Enough for everyone, but the greed of man still holds prominent and we are not awarded the luxuries Bane had managed to defend for our enjoyment that first week.

Even better than the gracious food drop-off, which descends like manna from the heavens no oats were sent this time; its brown rice instead, a blessing in itself.

meat that first night; oh God, what a difference it made. The four of us- Bane, Andri, Bobby and I- all sat in the doctors cell, teeth tugging at the fatty bones of a slightly under cooked, yet superlatively delicious hank of pig meat. A problem for the chef himself, being Jewish, but not one anyone gave much thought to; we had real meat and hearty company, and that was all that seemed to matter.

The hulking dinner the night before warmed not only our bodies but our hearts as well- our speech becomes less somber, our laughs are genuine and it's an all around more pleasant environment to be in than it has been the past few weeks.

Bane is coming on well; Andri's started letting him walk properly again, though he's only let him out of the cell once unchaperoned. The wound only needs redressing once every couple of days now. Bane's really benefiting from regaining his independence he is smiling more and sleeping less, and is determined to get back up to his old cell and retrieve anything up there that hasn't been stolen in his absence. He keeps talking about fighting again, when it's just him, Bobby and I, but we laugh him off; yet I'm worried he's seriously considering it. He's made 'friends' with the two boys, Barsad and Firdos. The three sit outside the cell every couple of days, laughing and drinking that vicious-scented bootlegged liquor. Bobby's sat with them tonight as well, whereas Andri is asleep in our half.

I feel envious of the four of them, sat there enjoying themselves. I try to justify a reason why I shouldn't allow myself to feel jealous, but can't find one, and, now that I've wound myself up, I don't_ want_ to cool down.

_They can sit out there drinking and having a good time,_ I think, _and I can't, just because I'm a woman;_ even when practically everyone else in the prison is asleep or to too drunk to care, I'm not allowed out. I haven't left this cell since I first snuck in it the night after Bane was stabbed, and it's starting to feel like a prison within the prison.

Bobby exchanges some joke within the group, and all of them howl with laughter. An itching feeling comes over me and I clasp a hand around one of the metallic bars.

"Hey," I say a couple of times to attract their-who am I kidding _his_ attention. They all look up and I lift my eyebrows to Bane. "Give me some."

"What?" Bane says, startled by my notification.

"Sharing is caring," I say with a toothy smile, pointing to his bottle with my free hand.

He looks down at the weathered blown glass bottle in his hand, with its thick cloudy liquid swirling inside.

"No," he says. I was ready for this reply, and respond accordingly.

"Why?" I say, suddenly snappy. "Is it because I'm a girl? I have to stay in this cramped cell 24/7 while you lot all sit out there drinking and having a good time, because I'm a woman?!"

Bane frowns, standing from the now silent group and moving to the cell bars.

"No," he says, "it's because it's not good for you."

"You're drinking it," I accuse, reaching a hand through the bars towards the eye-watering moonshine potion. He pulls the hand holding the liquor away, frowning at me.

"Don't act like a child," he says sternly, holding the liquor to the side of the cell bars. I grab onto the metal poles with both hands and hiss up to his razored face, "then stop treating me like one."

Andri stirs from inside the cell, distracting both of us. He groans indignantly then cries, "Hesht, budalla!" In a gruff voice. Bane begrudgingly apologies and I see me chance- swiftly I stab a hand through the bars, grab hold of the neck of the glass bottle and pull it back through to my own side. I watch Bane a split second for his reaction, seeing realization flood through his face, then draw the mouth of the bottle swiftly up to my lips and gulp down the stirring murky liquid as quickly as possible. It burns horribly, and my eyes begin to fill with tears from the sensation. I try my best to conceal this, but if he can't see the pricking in my eyes then he must be blind.

"Feel better now?" He says coldly, watching as I struggle to grasp the intensity of the gush of stabbing liquid.

I look at him, feeling rather aggravated still.

"No," I say flatly, the lining of my stomach screaming- it feels like an internal layer of skin has been ripped clean off.

Bane nods with an air of superiority, outstretching his hand in order to receive the bottle. I clutch stubbornly at it for a moment or so, then consider dropping it on the floor in order to entice a reaction from him. However, my conscience reminds me that something like that would only reinforce his statement about my so-called childish qualities.

I hand the bottle back begrudgingly and choke back the after taste of the moonshine. With a shake of his head, Bane closes his eyes and turns away from me; bare my teeth slightly at him and skulk backwards a little into the darkness of the cell.

The night passes and the amenity from the day before washes away along with the dirt from the clothing- washing clothes has become almost like a hobby over the last two weeks. I've washed our cell's load three times, the two Arab boys' twice, and even a couple of others who Andri has convinced to pay in small luxuries like more soap and small amounts of the moonshined alcohol, which, though Andri and Bobby do drink quite frequently when there's any available- Bane's touched barely a drop, only that he's drank with the two boys, since that night he became paralytic- comes in more handy for trading for better things, like nutritious food. After dissecting some of the fabric Andri had given me, I've managed to create a yarn of stiff, straw-like thread and, using a thick stitching needle from one of Bobby's old medical kits, compose for myself a frumpy dress which I'm setting about trying to give a nicer look, and a couple of shirts for Bane in the same fabric, which Andri seems to find rather hilarious.

"They're not that bad," I frown as Andri holds back tears of laughter at the sight of the hopeless clothes I've managed to pull together, and he says, through clenched teeth, "oh, no, of course not! They're..." He looks both of us up and down, Bane who has his eyes closed in an unimpressed expression.

"Wonderful," he expresses, compressing a smile and turning back to his food.

I stick my tongue out at him and Bane chuckles. It's good to see him properly awake again, not always seeming on the edge of drifting into sleep as he had been barely two weeks before. His smirking smile is a comfort as he glances over at me, and I grin back, like a young child basking in the pride of a parent's approval. I feel somewhat overjoyed that he's not holding my outburst from last night against me.

"You're looking so much better," I think out loud, watching his bright face. He looks genuinely happy, and it's heart warming to see.

"I feel it," he says, instinctively moving his hand around to the punctured area in his lower back. "Hardly notice this now."

"I'm glad," I say, smiling over him. I hum softly to myself, stupidly poking holes into the rigid fabric of my dress. I try to pull them straight again, but they don't quite look the same. I clench at the fabric's loose waist, thinking of ways I could make the dress look more appealing but why bother? It's not like I've anyone to impress.

_Bane,_ says a voice in the back of my mind. It speaks quietly and without reason, pressing into my nerves and settling down there. I've thought about it, several times- hours with nothing to do brings up all sorts of questions; many which I'm too frightened to ask, or try to answer. Why did he save me in the first place? And then, of course, there's what Andri said.

_you are not the first girl to be tucked under Bane's wing, my dear._

How many others? Just one, maybe? Some odd spring of jealousy rouges inside me. What was she- or they- like, I wonder? What happened to them?

And then, of course, there's Andri's question to Bane, always simmering away in the back of my mind;

_How long will this one last?_

-13, continued-

More weeks go by, and the weeks stretch into months two, by my rough count, but I'm never exactly sure what day it is. My clothes-washing to pass the time has turned into a make-shift business, and at least half the prison's visited by now. I doubt, though, that the majority are visiting for the service I provide; most, I figure, come just for the opportunity to stare. Due to this, my 'business' soon moves to the back of the cell. They still stare, but at least I'm not in close proximity. Handling dirty clothes is hardly my idea of the perfect job, but having work to delve into is certainly soothing my mental state.

Bane is fighting again. He vanished for a few hours a couple of weeks ago, and hobbled back with a split lip and his wound reopened. Andri went absolutely berserk- I've never seen anything like it in my life. He shot up from his seat in the cell, springing at the bars as Bane appeared and hurling abuse in his face, far worse than his usual escapades of 'Budalla.' Andri shouted him down for another ten minutes when Bane got back inside, until eventually Bane snapped. He threw his hand up in the air,

Roared a torrent of abuse at the older man, then turned on his heel and smashed his way out of the cell, slamming the bars behind him. Andri shouted after him in English, calling him a moron and a disgrace. Bane turned back to him, boiling with anger again, pulling the door back open and growling at Andri. The smaller man stood his ground- panicked and a bit scared, I looked to Bobby, who was sat in the secondary cell with his head in his hands, shaking his head.

"Bane-" I said, over the screaming of the two, now less than an inch from the other's face, "stop it."

He ignores me, continuing to exchange angry bouts of shouts with Andri. I look out of the cell, to see quite a few of the other inmates have stopped their daily buisness and are listening in.

"Bane!" I say, as he becomes more aggressive, muscles tensed and fists curled, "stop!"

"Why _me_?!" He cries, suddenly turning on me, "_he's_ the one who began this!"

"Well, _that's _mature!" I say sarcastically, stepping closer to them, "both of you, just shut up and stop it!"

Bane grabs me by the shoulder blades, freezing a moment, and I genuinely believe from his expression that he plans on swallowing me whole. With great force he directs me to the middle section, practically lifting me from my feet, pulls open the door and shoves me through. My back slams into the opposing wall upon impact, winding me and I stand startled for a moment. My pulse deepens in my temples, and I hear Bobby's voice cry out angrily over the continuous shouts of the two arguing men, his gentle hand on my shoulder as he leads me to sit down. I stumble down onto the motten bed, trying to regain my focus as the argument becomes even more heated. Andri points over to me, and a few seconds later, Bane collars Andri and almost lifts him from the floor. In one swift movement, less than half a second, he draws his knuckles across Andri's jaw line, dropping him in the process. Andri drops down to the floor, stumbling back up, a clog of red blood curdling at the side of his mouth. He spits, spraying a clot of metallic matter into the straw. I stare in shock, completely astounded by what Bane just did. He stands there, muscles still tense, though his face shows surprise at his actions.

Andri almost smiles, showing a row of red-stained teeth. "If you wish to start your fighting again," he says, "you need to learn some self-control."

Bane steps back, rubbing the sweat from his forehead. He fumbles for the door of the cell and creaks it open, jolting out of the door silently and pushing through the small crowd. Andri watches him, a hand soothing his soon-to-be-bruised jaw.

"Budalla," he says, then clicks his neck and stumbles waveringly into the bathroom. I go to speak, but Bobby places a hand on top of my own raised one, drawing it back and shaking his head at me. I look at him in confusion a moment, then nod.

Day fades slowly to night, and night into dawn.

Bane does not return.

**Really has to force myself to write some of this one because it just bored me- genuinely bored me to write- but it was NEEDED. That's why it took so long- and now it's over, the story's flowing again. We needed the first chunk of this cursed establishing chapter to set the scene, and we needed a chunk of time out of the way, so I'm sorry; but don't worry. I have something rather exciting for you next chapters. **

**QUESTION TIME:**

**(*POSSIBLE SPOILERS BELOW!*)**

**Q: "what time period will the story continue until?"~ Jinx1257**

**A: tough question- in my head, I have events planned until just after Bane leaves the prison. I'm not saying it will end there, just that atm, my brain doesn't know what's happening after that ;)**

**Q: "is anyone gonna die? O_O don't tell me who though!"- kiramal (via deviantart)**

**A:I have the rough outline of the story planned out, and there's gonna be at least two. So, y'know. Beware! People gon' die.**

**If you wanna ask a question, leave it in the reviews and I'll put the answer (if it's not too spoilerish, if not, I'll probs PM you) in the next AN :)**

**RandR, Love to y'all, and thanks for reading! **

**And remember, fish are friends, NOT FOOD. X**


	14. Chapter 14: Unwelcome Guest

**Chapter Fourteen: **

**Unwelcomed Guest**

**AN: GOOD LORD! **

**Fancy seeing me here- sorry I've been away so long, my pretties. It's been a loooonnnnngggg few weeks- exams, essays, and enough personal problems to give Lindsey lohan a run for her money. But enough about me- let's get on with Condemned! **

**(One thing; I suggest you read over the last chapter, because even I had to do that when I started writing- I'd completely forgot where I was and where on earth I was going D:)**

"Did you see him?" I ask Andri as he approaches the cell, carrying three bowls of rice.

"No," he answers flatly, handing a bowl to Bobby, who is sat on his crate outside the cage.

"Think not on him," Andri says, "he is temperamental- you have seen that." Andri pretends to laugh, but I can see it's thinly veiled.

"Are you alright?" I ask quietly, empathetic towards the bruising against the man's jawline. He's seemed off since Bane left- a little shaken, almost. Weakness is not something I thought I'd ever see in Andri, but it's been visible the last couple of days.

"Fine, fine. Don't ask such silly things. Now come, you have work to be doing, no? Clean the clothes. You told Barsad they would be done today, and it's already gone midday, just look at the sun!"

"I'm eating, aren't I?! Besides, I'm sure a few hours longer of waiting won't do any damage- let's face it, it's not like any of us are going anywhere."

Andri chuckles, rubbing his forearms as though to warm himself, although the sun is abnormally hot today.

"Those two are good," he says. "Firm-spirited and strong. They'll do well down here, I think. Though they still seem naïve- that may be their downfall."

I think on that a moment, spooning rice with my spatula- a skill I've now fully mastered.

"So are they brothers, or-?"

"No, no, friends. From the same village, they told us- they were penniless, they said. The usual sob story- their families hadn't enough to eat, so they tried some petty robbery in a liquor store in a richer part of town. Got away with it, as well, until on the way back a couple of officers pulled them up for speeding in the getaway car they'd stolen from the scene. They found the money in Firdos' lap, assumed they were drug dealers. No trial, no anything- threw the pair down here three weeks later. Just like that."

"Just like that," I repeat sadly. I can't put to rest the questions now floating above the surface of my brain.

"But that seems so... petty. I mean, just drug dealing- and they didn't even do it? I know it's hardly a small crime, being a dealer, but to be thrown down here forever? I mean- being here, forever, just able to see your escape- It's more extreme than the death sentence, don't you think?"

"They are local," Andri says, "that is the way things work in their home. Anyone seen to be a trouble maker is thrown in here to rot."

"But then... If this is just a normal prison, why am- are we- here? Neither of us are local. Someone went to a lot of trouble to get us in here- they must have done."

"Someone must have really wanted you to disappear," Andri answers. I gulp.

"Yeah, but- let's be honest, if you wanted someone gone that badly, why bother sending them out here and shoving them down this hole forever? Why not just kill them? It would be a lot simpler, and save a lot of money on jet fuel."

"Jet?!" Andri laughs, "You're lucky. I was brought over in the back of a van- it took nearly two weeks!"

"Petrol, then," I grin. I want to ask him why he's here now, but I know that if I divert from the path now I'll never get my questions answered.

"So why, Andri? Why didn't they just kill us?"

He looks up at me, struggling with the solemn nature the conversation is converting to.

"Tell me," he says. "Who did you wrong- the Government, some aristocrat, a mob boss-?"

"I didn't wrong anybody!" I say defensively.

"Upset, then," he says dismissively, leaning in closer. "Or got in the way. Saw something you shouldn't have? It doesn't really matter anyway. You see, my dear, these types- some of them would rather not have blood on their hands, and pride themselves on keeping their ledgers clean. They see flat-out murder as distasteful, and see this as a cleaner, less troubling alternative. This place is a dumping ground for all their little problems and fop as... or, of course, whoever had you dumped down here really does just want you to suffer more than any other human being could imagine. Now come on- those clothes are not going to wash themselves, are they?"

"I suppose not," I say, placing the half-empty bowl of the floor then getting up begrugedly, sighing and picking up the delivered pile of clothes from the side of the bed. "Hi ho, hi ho."

Hands elbow-deep in dirty wash water, I watch as Andri leaves the cell again, singing under my breath as the prison moves around me.

As darkness begins to fall, Firdos, the slighter of the two Arabian boys, comes to collect their laundry. I smile wistfully at him, folding the clothes, which are still rather damp. I pass them through the bars to him, and he takes them with a smile- although we've never spoken- mainly because my Arabic is still grossly undeveloped- I get the feeling that he's a nice guy; too nice to be stuck down here. It's clear that of the two of them, Barsad is in charge; the pair never seem to leave each other's side.

We both thank each other in his home-tongue, then Firdos nods and walks away. As he moves off, I see a frazzly- haired, thin man approaching the cell, a bundle of clothes piled over one arm.

I recognise him to be the chef. He reeks of stale rice- everyone's now praying for the next drop-off, as somehow the dry storage rice got moist and is beginning to fester with greyish mould. Having to pick mould from half the grains of rice in each bowl is certainly not a pleasant experience.

The red-haired chef- if he can be called that- gives me a maniacal, unrealistic grin then drops the clothes through the bars.

"Payment?" I ask in an unremarkable accent, rubbing my fingers as to better represent the action. Through the practice of sign, I manage to defer that he'll give it tomorrow. I manage to explain to him that if he doesn't give the payment first, he won't be getting his clothes back. He shrugs dismissively, then turns his tail and springs back down the dark corridor he resides in the majority of the time, whistling overtly.

The clothes he left behind are reeking out the cell, so I quickly dive them into the water, scrub them down using almost half of the handmade lard-soap I have left, then put them across the room into Bobby and Bane's cell.

Can I call it that anymore? I'm starting to believe Bane has no intention of coming back- after all, he was only here in the first place because he got stabbed, and he's able to manage that on his own now. But would he have just left me here?

_Don't be stupid, _I tell myself. A better question would be why _wouldn't_ he leave you here. After all, Andri and Bobby don't seem to want to get rid of me- even though I must be a burden. But, then again, at least now I'm raking in some profit- at least I have some other use than just decoration now.

I wonder-?

"Aye!" Comes a roar from too close by which de-rails my train of thought. I start, turning back to see what all the fuss is about. Bobby, sat in the sun in his chair, is shaking his head as he watches a further-off scene- it's another fight.

Oh God.

_He wouldn't-?!_

There is a small crescent-shaped crowd which seem to have formed with me in mind, across the other side so that I have full view of what's going on.

Bane is shirtless in the centre of our level of the complex, in view of everyone, opposite a larger, yet leaner, man. As I watch, the taller man leans forwards and cuts Bane across the jaw with a resounding punch, which nearly sends him clattering off his feet. I suck air through my teeth in shock, watching the pair. I pull myself up to the bars, desperately trying to get as good a look as I can.

A dark figure sweeps into the path of my vision and as my eyes refocus, I realise it's the guy who'd tried it on with me all those months ago when Bane had first been wounded- the one I'd stabbed in the back of the knee with a razor then knocked out with a metal basin and tied up.

"Hello again," he says with a smirk, a very faint dip to his stride as he walks closer to the bars. Instinctively I take a step back, but then return to my original place- I'm not scared of him. I ignore his attempts at getting my attention, trying to see around his frame as he stands directly in my field of vision. At another great guffaw from the eager crowd witnessing the fight Bane's involved in, I take a step to the side- the man follows like an irritating shadow, moving in unison when I step back the other way.

"Move," I say firmly, avoiding his eye as I try to see around him, "you're in the way."

"That's no way to treat a costumer," he says, shaking a handful of clothing which, by the smell of it alone, is definitely in need of a wash.

"We're closed," I say back, annoyed that he won't leave, but more so that he's distracting me from finding out what's going on with the fight.

"You are wondering what is going on?" He smiles, "have you not seen them fight like that before? The rules are simple. Last man standing wins. They throw punches at each other until the other hits the ground."

As much as I want to refrain from ever communicating with this slimy sewer-rat of a man again, I am interested in learning as much about the situation as possible.

"Who is he?" I say, referring to the opposition. The sly prisoner warns me to be more specific and I agitatedly point out the man, knowing he's only playing up to grind my gears a little further.

"That is Carriveau," he explains quietly, insisting on practically having his nose in my ear canal as he talks. "He is a Cajun- French Louisianan. Good brawn fighter, but his stamina is low. Perhaps low enough for your little guardian to beat him..."

I can no longer stand the putrid breathing down my ear, and gasp, "can you just go now, please?"

"You could at least use my name, most uncivil of you. It's Nas, in case you were wondering."

"Will you just go now, please,_ Nas?_ and no, I wasn't."

"Ah, you used it! Might I ask what yours is, my angel?"

"It's none of your business, that's what it is. And I'm not _your angel._ I'm not anybody's anything."

"You might want to tell that to Bane," he says, leaning closer, "he seems to think you are his pet. But he has abandoned you now, no? Surely you are in need of a new master-?!"

"Fuck off!" I spit, pushing him through the bars.

"A most uncivil woman you are," he says, with a dangerous bite to his belittling stance.

"I should have stabbed you somewhere more fatal," I say with venom- It takes a moment for him to digest the sentence, but once he does, he laughs loudly.

"It has scarred, you know," he murmurs, pointing to the back of his knee.

"Good!" I shout, wishing him into non-existence. It doesn't work, and when I open my eyes, he's still before me, with that slimy smirk on his sharp features.

"Leave!" I cry, my eyes as vicious and commanding as I can make them. He drops the clothes through the bars and walks away with a wink.

"Well, if you change your mind..."

_"Bastard," _I say out loud to myself,

My rage at the encounter with him- _Nas-_ makes me almost forget about Bane, until the crowd thunders another cry, this time I see it's Bane's opponent that's taken the hit, and now had a damp stream of blood dribbling down his accented chin. Smiling in a palish manner at his attacker, the opponent- Carnival, carvilou, something like that?- swings once more for Bane, who remains still and doesn't so much as flinch as the fist comes to his face. When it hits, Bane reels a moment. It's not long until the pair are passing banter and talking up for the crowds; I try my hardest to tune in to what they are saying.

"Had 'nuff yet?" The opponent laughs, and Bane says, "you're not getting rid of me that easily, Carriveau."

They throw two more punches, then Bane stems a moment.

"That actually hurt," he says, holding his nose, and the Cajun man sighs.

"Mon chagren, sha cher!" Carriveau coos mickey-taking in his thick, mutilated version of French, voice friendly and laughing.

"Oh, I'm not your darling," Bane laughs back with a breathless sweep of his head, getting ready to roll the next punch.

"Dat's what you tink," he responds with a wink in his thick cajun-louisiannan accent, preparing for the blow- Bane delivers it to his chest with a sharp jab, and the opponent groans.

"Oh, mon chagren, sa cher!" Bane mocks, as Carriveau laughs himself into an upright position, then quickly rams his fist into Bane's neck so that he wobbles backwards dazed.

"I'll tell you sometin- we go tree more rounds, and if we're both still standing we call it a draw and go quits with the takings."

"You're not getting rid of me that easily," Bane smirks, preparing for his next throw. Carriveau laughs, beckoning Bane with his hands. "Oh, Allon-sy, baby."

He takes the hit in a spectacular fashion, shaking his head like a rabid dog for a moment before returning the favour.

Although this is clearly a competition, it seems both sides are utterly relaxed about the whole thing- like beating up a man you appear to be decently engaged with is the norm.

At his next lunge, Bane steps slightly out of the circle drawn around his feet and the sort of 'referee' of the fight calls a foul, and draws a strike in the dust with his finger besides Bane's ring. I don't know how many strikes you get till you're cast out, but Bane's just earnt himself his second.

"So, Bane," says Carriveau, acting as though he were whispering although his performance is clearly for the entire crescent-shaped audience, "tell us about dat lil' tink you're keepin locked up in the old doc'ors."

I've never been referred to as a 'tink' before, and I'm not sure if I like it at all.

Bane rolls his eyes as though he's heard this a thousand times before- and, being the 'owner', as it seems to be thought of, of the only female creature on the complex, I'm sure he has. It makes my skin crawl to think of all the late-night propositions I've been awarded, which have doubled the last couple of nights Bane's been gone. I suddenly wonder if that's the reason Nas came today- he was too scared to approach whilst Bane was still around.

"But still," Carriveau's voice comes, awakening me from the distraction of my thoughts- it seems I've missed a chunk of the conversing. "You're gonna av to start sharin', sha cher. You're not the only one wit a taste fo-"

With that, before Carriveau can finish his sentence, Bane's fist rams into his jugular and the Cajun is sent thundering to the ground, gasping. He wheezes a laugh and half of the crowd cheer, the other groan and try to sneak away before their failed bets can be collected. Bane receives another cheer as he collects his winnings- what appears to be a half-bottle of bootlegged moonshine. He takes a ready swig and tucks it inside the strap of his back brace, which I am glad he has retrieved. A small gathering of men around Bane's stature congregate about him- by the looks of it, haggling to fight with him next time a round is set up.

Bane shrugs them off, but then a larger, more stout figure ploughs through, face-to-face with Bane and makes his offer. There's a hum of a word throughout the crescent crowd, which works its way through the complex quickly and I grab on to any threads of conversation around me in order to catch it. A respectful-looking 30-something man raises his head and moves over to Bobby, not far from me but now fallen asleep in the hot sun, wakes him carefully and says the word, whispered in his ear at first, but quickly turned louder in order for Bobby's disfunctionate ears to pick it up. That time, even I hear it.

_Dandachi._

Instantly, I remember the name- _Dandachi._ The prisoner who beat Barsad to a bloody pulp; the one Bane believes stabbed him all those nights ago.

"Don't," I say out loud, eyes set on the two figures in the centre of the pit.

Bane nods and the two clasp hands briefly before the lager party leaves.

"Don't!" I repeat, louder this time, as if this might actually make him here it from all the way across the prison. I shake my head in despair, rubbing a hand across my forid. Bane looks a little uncertain as to the challenge he's just taken on, but I can see already the rage of vengeance against Dandachi bubbling beneath his rough skin. He rolls his shoulders then moves his hand instinctively to the ragged flesh of motten scar tissue at his back, holding it there as he walks off into the cavernous, ant-like workings of the prison.

I look down at the clothes Nas left and give them a harsh kick into the corner of the cell.

**AN: **

**Question time-**

**Q) How old is the FOC? **

**A) However old you want her to be! With anything FF I write, I tend to make the lead OC as ambiguous as possible (very little physical description, no defined age/etc. - some, like our FOC in Condemned, don't even have a name), so that readers can bring their own interpretations to the story. You find that, that way, everybody identifies with and reads the character slightly differently, which I think is nice. YOU DECIDE! :D**

**Q) How often do you update?**

**A) I try to stick to a once-a-week time frame, but sometimes that just doesn't work out- the only free time I ever really have when I'm feeling creative is when I'm lying in bed (sad, right?), so depending on my tiredness and level of creativity at the time I can write from about three minutes to two hours each night. That's why I sometimes take forever- updates depend on my sleepiness! but yip hip hurrah, i have the next chapter already written in advance, so no super delays this time :D**

**goodbye, my lovelies, until next update- R&R if you feel so inclined! :)**


	15. Chapter 15: Trust

**Chapter Fifteen: **

**Trust**

**AN: short, I know, but enjoy it all the same! ;D WIZADORA AWAY! *zoidbergwoopwoopwoop***

"Bane!" I cry, jumping against the bars like a cages animal as he approaches. I've been waiting since yesterday for him to walk past in order to get food. I knew I wouldn't have to wait long- the drop-off came last night, so everyone's been pining for the meat.

Bane acts as though he hasn't heard and veers to the opposing column of cells, but I won't be ignored.

"Hey!" I say as he walks past, "come on, I need to talk to you!"

He carries on down the corridor, and I decide not to shout after him; he has to walk back this way anyhow, and there's no way he'll get past until I've been heard.

I sort through piles of neglected clothes for a few minutes while I wait for him, then catch his frame striding back through the corridor. He walks quickly, clearly preparing to hurry past- I grab at my chance, and sweep back to the front of the cell;

"Don't fight him," I demand as he approaches, "promise me you won't."

He considers whether or not to respond for a split second, then goes to walk ahead.

"No," I say, reaching out and grabbing the sleeve of his thick shirt- the one I made, actually.

He could easily shrug me off if he wanted to, but he decides not to. He stands not looking at me for a second, then turns his strong eyes on me.

"Let me in."

I do so without a second thought, reaching for the key Andri keeps on the side and unlocking the heavy door. Bane moves inside, takes the key from me and locks the door himself. Then he turns, sighs a second, and grabs me by the throat.

I gasp in shock a second, as he drives me back into the room and pushes me up against the far wall.

"What are you-!?"

"Do you see?" He says in his usual tone, as though this were a conversation where one party didn't have their hands around the others neck, "how easy it is. What did I tell you?"

"You're hurting m-"

"Don't open the door to anyone." He says firmly, looking dead into my eyes. I struggle to free myself once more and he gently lets go of me, removing his hand from my now burning throat. I cough a second, pressing my fingers to my neck in shock. Then anger takes over and I bitterly cry,

"Is that your idea of teaching me a lesson?!"

"That depends on whether or not it worked."

"I- Well it was only you, I wouldn't have just been opening the door to anyone!"

"That wasn't the lesson; don't trust anyone, regardless of who they are."

"I can't believe you just-"

My words run out; I am utterly flummoxed.

Bane sits down on his old bed and looks across at me. I'm still stood motionless, struggling inwardly at what to make of the entire scenario. It takes Bane's own initiative to remind me why I let him inside in the first place.

"I will fight him," he says plainly, referring to Dandachi.

"I don't want you to," I say, and it ends up sounding far more pitiful than I'd hoped.

"I want revenge," he says, smoothing his hand over the stubble of his face then around the back of his head. "I need it."

"But you can't even be certain it was him-"

"Yes, I can. It's tough to keep a secret in a place as small as this- much more than just the walls have ears. I've more than enough conformation that it was his idea."

"And knocking him over in a game of last one standing will be enough to sate your vengeance?" I say doubtfully.

"Neither of us is going into this thing expecting a fair fight," he says knowingly, "I'm sure things will escalate rather quickly."

"Don't do it."

"Should make a good show."

"I don't want you getting hurt."

"There'll be a good turnout everyone's talking about it; they all know it was he who-"

"Stop ignoring me!" I shout over him, finally winning his attention. I know I'll never convince him.

"Just- at least think about pulling out." As soon as I've said it, I realise my choice of words- _pulling out-_ will surely not improve the situation. In the short time I have known this man, I have learnt he is certainly not one to back down from anything.

"Be careful," I say, like a defeated mother who knows she cannot prevent her child's antics, and seeks only to lessen the damage of the consequences.

"And you," he says back, standing for the door. He turns away from me and I say quietly,

"Am I not worth an apology?", referring to the strangling incident earlier. He pauses a second, tilting his head to me whilst maintaining his gaze upon the outer of the complex.

"I won't apologise for keeping you safe," he says blandly, exiting the cell- then handing me the key through the bars.

I'd completely forgotten he even had it.

He gives me a telling look, then walks away into the chaos of the prison.


	16. Chapter 16: War

**Chapter Sixteen: War**

**AN: thanks so much for the reviews and suchlike guys- i woke up to seven in one night the other day and nearly died of happiness :') As always, feel free to ask any questions, make any suggestions, etc, either in the reviews section, by email (passmeanotherbiscuit .uk) or, for the artsy folk amongst us, on Deviant Art ( .com)**

The day of the fight comes swift and unstoppable; it's hard to ignore the hype of it all. I haven't seen the prison buzz like this with excitement before; everyone who passes or visits for laundry services appears to be going- Barsad and Firdos appear actually enthralled, the two twitting away rapidly outside the cell about, I manage to grasp, how Bane is sure to win, and how they'll be waiting early to get the best view possible of the make-do arena. The two are positively bubbling with praise for Bane, so much so that Bobby, sat quietly on his bunk, calls out for them to shut up. I'm quite proud that I've managed to deduce an entire conversation Bobby's been encouraging me the last couple of nights, along with the far more zealous Andri, who approaches the subject of me having a fluent grasp of the Arabic language as soon as possible with a sudden religious devotion. The forced-upon lessons, though I welcome all the help I can get, are daunting and tedious for all involved but, as proved so just, are already working somewhat.

Firdos and Barsad receive their clothes neatly folded and smelling as fresh as prison conditions allow, then excitedly zoom back to their own cell with a cry of thanks.

I shake my head with a smile, returning to my work. Bobby says something I don't quite understand, then gets up and leaves the cell for one of his morning walks. I wave him off like a poster-girl housewife then go back to washing clothes.

Someone clears their throat behind me and I turn, plastering on my business smile, ready to face my next customer. Instead, the smile falls ungraciously as I see the customer who has graced my humble presence. It's Nas.

"What are you doing here?" I spit, turning away from him again.

"How rude," he says, "I am only here to get my clothes, hmm?"

As quickly as possible, I rifle through the pile of to-be-washed clothes, find the ones I remember to be his and walk them over to the cell- impertinently, I thrust the unwashed garments into his hands and walk back to my work.

"Well I don't think much of your service," he says sarcastically, and I focus all my energy into wishing him to leave.

"Do it yourself," I say sharply, "your business isn't wanted here."

"Girl, what is your problem with me?"

_"'Girl?!'" _I say, offended, "I have a name, you know!"

"Well how am I to call you by it, if you refuse to tell me what it is, _girl?"_

I remember my words to him the other day and stand by my conviction to keep that information from him- the idea of the name on his tongue- _my _name- drives my stomach into slurring, unpleasant hoops.

It is just then that I hear that precious word which holds my identity spoken; but it comes from much friendlier lips than the ones I know to be behind me. I turn at the sound of my name, to find Bane approaching, shirtless and sullen- Nas senses his forthcoming without so much as turning his head, takes an angst-filled glance at me then drops the unwashed clothing back over the bars of the cell and looms away , as though he had never even paused at mine and the doctors' abode.

Bane's pace slows as he nears the cell, eyes sharply fixated on the back of Nas as he sweeps away into the shadows.

"Was he causing you any trouble?" He asks, and I can see him itching slightly to go after him.

"Not really," I say with a sigh, scooping up the clothes he left behind and dropping them to the floor outside the cell. As I stand my eyes catch the contours of his chest and hover there a moment- I quickly avert them as reason returns, flushing a light pink and hoping he hasn't noticed my lingering gaze.

"Can I come in?" He says, seemingly oblivious to my smouldered embarrassment.

I hesitate a moment, thinking of my lightly bruised neck- a result of yesterday's visit.

"No," I say, though it sounds almost like a question, and he smiles, reassured.

"That's it," he says proudly, glad I've 'learnt my lesson', as he put it.

"Looks like you've got yourself a little fan club," I muse, nodding to Barsad and Firdos, who are already waiting at the ring-side in their freshly laundered clothes.

Bane laughs dimly, shaking his head in bemusement.

"If only there were a few more on my side," he says, the comment obviously in mention of me.

"I am on your side," I say sadly. "But I won't support all of this, Bane. I can't."

"I know you won't," he says, head bowed through something other than annoyance, though his voice comes sharp. "You're stubborn."

"He's a dangerous man, Bane, you know that from experience. And I- you know I don't want you getting hurt."

"This time it'll be on equal terms," he mutters. "Face-to-face he'll have a lot more trouble beating me down. His dirty tricks will count for nothing."

"Even so," I say, letting him have his small victories, "don't let it go too far."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Don't get so defensive," I say gently, trying to ease the kindling fire in his tone. "I just mean, don't let it turn into a war."

"It's already a war," he says with an element of bitterness. I go to soothe him with words, but my mouth is put to a halt as I recognize a figure in the near distance- Andri is returning from whatever caper he's been indulged in.

My slight hesitation does not go unnoticed, and Bane turns to the side to see what's behind- he puffs a sigh and goes to move along without so much as a goodbye, but I crush my fist around the fabric of his support brace.

"Stay," I say almost pleadingly, "and let's sort this out; come on, Andri wants you back-" I'm not sure if this is the truth or not- "it's silly going on like this. All that needs to happen is to say sorry then-"

"_Me_ apologize?!" He says flustered, and I hurry to keep the peace,

"Make it mutual, yeah? There's no need to loose a friend-"

As I carry on talking I can see Andri in the background- he has noticed Bane and now holds a firm expression as he finds excuses to linger where he stands until Bane has left. I continue to ramble in an attempt to keep him here, but I feel his hand clasp around my own, tucked into the strap of the brace, and he pushes it back through the cell bars and away from him. He glances silently towards the ring where the fight will take place then glances at me and starts walking away.

"Bane- Bane!" I say as he goes, desperate for some form of acknowledgement, then cry out with defeated urgency, "-be careful!"

He makes no sign of acknowledging my efforts as he slouches away.

Andri arrives soon afterwards, and makes no mention of Bane's predesessing presence as he moves back into the cell. He meanders around the piles of clothes littering his straw-laden floor then slumps down onto his bed. Unspoken words pass between us, then I slip, "what happened between the two of them, Andri?"

"Huh?" Andri prompts, one hand to his left temple, massaging it gently.

"This Dandachi and... Bane." It feels uncomfortable saying the name in light of the thick fog passing between the two of them. "I mean, I'm just guessing, but there's gonna be some history between the two of them, right? For them to hate each other so much? A story to be told?"

Andri exhales loudly, eyes closed and knees drawn up to his chest. He scratches a hand through his peppery hair, highlights of grey diminishing in the shadows of the prison cell. When his eyes open, they are dark and dismissive.

"The foundations for their dispute lie far back. Years ago, Bane used to make cigarettes. Not proper ones, you understand- well, unless by some miracle a swotch of nicotine got sent with the drop-off, and things like that are as rare as a two-headed lizard, you'll understand. That was his little buisness, much like your clothes-washing set up."

"Laundrette."

"Call it what you will, that's besides the point. Anyway, one week Bane was desperate for supplies to keep his business up and running, had filled the filter papers with alcohol-doused chips of wood and all manner of other things in an attempt to disguise the vile taste. Anyway, by Bane's own lack of expertise, that particular batch has turned out to be highly flammable and had set alight beside a lard candle in Dandachi's cell. They burnt out it's interior with him inside it- by the time he had found his key and escaped, the flames had licked all up his chest and neck, mutilating him. Bobby treated him, and sure enough, as soon as he was well enough, he tried to return the favor. Failed, of corse- but the two have held a bitter vengeance against each other ever since. The stabbing, this fight- it's all just part of their stupid war against the other's existence."

"Do you think they're ever going to stop?" I ask, doubtfully; I try to imagine what it would be like to hate someone as intensley as Bane and Dandachi hate each other.

"Not until one of them is dead, it seems," Andri says coldly, "and judging by the rumors swirling around, this fight may be their final confrontation."

I swallow, hard.

"You have to talk to him," I plead softly. "He won't listen to me. At least try- please."

Andri stares at me coldly. "He would not take my advice. I am, after all, some sort of hinderance to him."

"He respects you, you must realise that." Somewhere in that sentence Andri gives a guffaw of amusement, then directs my gaze to the deep bruising across his jaw line.

"Does this look like a mark of respect to you, my dear?"

I sigh, feet kicking at the straw on the floor as I stroke one of the garments in my hand- realising it belongs to Nas, I drop it immediately to the ground.

"Besides," Andri says, a strange clarity rising in his solemn voice, "I fear we may be too late for such interventions."

I follow his eyes to the centre of the pit, where a great, raucous crowd is beginning to assemble.

The fight has begun.

**AN: hope you're enjoying the story so far, hit me up with any suggestions! have a great day readers and visitors, and spread the love!**


	17. Chapter 17: The Fight

**Chapter Seventeen: The Fight**

**AN: heya guys, and welcome to the next instalment of 'Condemned'! ;D**

**For details of the story playlist, see the end AN once you've finished reading the chapter.**

**As always, thanks so much for the follows, faves, reviews and support. The last chapter got some really useful, constructive comments, so a big thanks to all of you- if I could hug you all individually, I would. **

**For details of the story playlist, see the end AN once you've finished reading the chapter.**

**Anyway, time's ticking, so here we go! Enjoy, and please R&R!**

_-Recap-_

_"You have to talk to him," I plead softly. "He won't listen to me. At least try- please."_

_Andri stares at me coldly. "He would not take my advice. I am, after all, some sort of hindrance to him."_

_"He respects you, you must realize that." Somewhere in that sentence Andri gives a guffaw of amusement, then directs my gaze to the deep bruising across his jawline._

_"Does this look like a mark of respect to you, my dear?"_

_I sigh, feet kicking at the straw on the floor as I stroke one of the garments in my hand- realizing it belongs to Nas, I drop it immediately to the ground._

_"Besides," Andri says, a strange clarity rising in his solemn voice, "I fear we may be too late for such interventions."_

_I follow his eyes to the center of the pit, where a great, raucous crowd is beginning to assemble._

_The fight has begun._

My stomach sinks as soon as my eyes find Bane. Not because I'm worried for him- although that is also a factor- and not because he looks unprepared- in fact, it's the opposite. He looks ready; so ready to fight and destroy that it crushes a part of me, his utterly focused determination swamping the entire cell, and I know, right there in that moment, that he cannot loose.

But then I see him.

Dandachi, Bane's opponent.

He is the complete opposite of what I was expecting, for all but the scarring. His physique is tall and dominant, but far leaner than I'd imagined. He seems ill-put together, as though drawn by a child- a body which seems to be of equal length to his legs, with low-hanging, barrel arms and a neck like a tree trunk, so thick it seems to carve into his shoulders.

His head is square, with a powerful chin and high-set eyes which fall deep into his face, and a thin mouth, thickly lined with the hardships of his life. I imagine, odd-looking as he seems, that he would have been ruggedly attractive in his younger years- were it not, of corse, for the scars... thick, jagged branches which knot their way in gruesome paths up and over Dandachi's skin, gnarling his vocal chords into charred contours at the mutilated skin of his neck. The cooked flesh climbs it's way up the line of his jaw like an infection, a parasite that needs cutting away. The dead skin follows down Dandachi's collar, spreading like the fire which caused it across his bare chest and back, dissapearing down his left side into the band of his rugged trousers.

A smallish man who seems to play the part of referee crouches down beside the two opponents, now facing each other and begins to draw two rough circles around the places they stand with a stub of chalk. He stands back up as the crowds heckle, a small group huddled around the referee's assistant, hastily placing their bets. The refugee let's out a guttural bark to inform the crowd of the impending battle, then stabs a three-fingered hand in the air and counts down from three in Arabic.

"Who goes first?" I ask Andri, remembering the same format being used when Bane fought the Cajun, Carriveau- they take it in turns to strike eachother until one hits the ground.

"Dandachi," Andri says, "out of respect, because he is the older of the two."

Surley enough, Dandachi takes a swinging punch and cuts up Bane's jaw, and I wince, thinking of the agony his jaw has caused him before. Bane shakes it off, though, and quickly aims a sharp jab at Dandachi's abdomen, right over a patch of the scarring.

This painful cycle continues for several minutes, the two hitting each other repeatedly back and forth, before I look away uneasily and ask Andri, "how can they do it? Just stand there and take the hit, not even flinch?"

"Practice," Andri says. "You don't play by the rules, you don't get your winnings. Moving or defending yourself counts as a forefit, and your possible winnings are given to your opponent. It is as simple as that."

"So it all comes down to money again," I say skeptically, and Andri knods,

"Doesn't everything?"

There is a particularly loud cry from the crowd and I flick my head back, face between the bars, to get a better look. A couple of audience members, stragglers at the back, have moved inwards and now block my view of the battle raging in their midst.

"Can I just go a bit outside?" I say hopefully, craning my head a little to try and see, "just so I can get a better position, there's no danger, everyone's at the fight anyway-"

"Certainly not," Andri says sharply, muttering Budalasha under his breath when I turn my head. A little parting appears in the crowds and, as awkwardly positioned as I am, I can see a chip of the fight through it.

Bane has just taken a hit, a dangerously high lump apearing at the side of his head, as he swings back his fist and jolts an uppercut underneath Dandachi's chin. The huge man reels a moment, a slither of blood dribbling from his nostril, but looks otherwise unphased. The two continue like this for a few minutes, one lugging swing after another, and I wince at each of Bane's reactions.

Andri is beside me now, his face against the metal warmed by the strong sun, stubble toughing its curved surface because his face is so close.

"This is unbareable," I say, almost angrily, "how can anyone enjoy watching this?"

"After twenty years with hardly any form of entertainment," Andri admits, "it's hard not to."

I shake off his comment and refocus my attentions to Bane, who looks just as determined but half as powerful as he had when the fight had started. He swings a forceful fist in Dandachi's direction and hits the same spot as earlier, right underneath his chin, and it seems almost to leave a dent in the man's thick charred skin. Bane readies himself for Dandachi's next blow, and as he does there's a glint of silver as Dandachi's fist flies and suddenly he's clutching his face, bent forwards more than before, and I see a flash of red begin to flow between his fingers.

"No!" I give a guttural cry, slamming my fingers against the bars though I know from past experience this yields no response from anything or anyone.

Except Andri.

"Be patient," he says.

Before he can explain any further my attentions are back to Bane, who has now wiped the blood from his face and has uncovered a thick red slit, diagonally down his lip and stretching about two inches across. He visibly struggles to restrain himself while the Booker's assistant scratches a chalk strike into the dusty ground beside Dandachi's ring, indicating that he has played foul.

Suddenly I realize something.

"It's three strikes, right?" I say to Andri, remembering Bane's earlier fight with the Cajun man, Carriveau. "Three strikes then they loose by default."

"I know what your thinking," Andri says. "I thought it myself. If they really are intent on playing as dirty as rumor would have us believe, then the strike system will end the fight long before any genuine victory will. But it doesn't matter- either way, there will be a rematch declared. Neither will submit to failure or success, not when it is handed to them on a plate. They will fight again and again until one of them is dead."

I watch a moment, downfallen yet thoughtful, as the referee takes the blood-tainted short-knife from Dandachi. He gives it to him without any fuss, a light smirk swamping on his flame-licked features. Bane hits twice then, seemingly as compensation to the wound on his face. As consequence, the assistant strikes a line of chalk to match Dandachi's outside of Bane's circle, then the swinging match continues a little longer, uninterrupted. Both party's receive another foul under the direction of the Booker, both strikes for stepping out of the line.

Until there's a break in the violence and suddenly Dandachi spits in Bane's face.

The whole complex of the prison, even down to the familiar whistling of the cook from down the corridor, ceases into silence.

The Booker's boy crouches steadily, unsure whether or not he should rule the final strike.

The decision is made for him as Bane leaps like a panther from his circle, drowning Dandachi in a sea of fist-fire and growling fiercely The Booker calls an end to the fight as Bane and Dandachi claw at each other on the ground, announcing that both have declared themselves forfeit by deviation. Neither seem to hear, both too caught up in ahnnialating the other, and with a brisk nod the Booker orders his assistant to strike the final fouls into the sandy earth. The boy shakes his head uncertainly, pointing to the place where the rings and chalk-strikes resided, which is now dust-blown and smothered in flaying limbs and angry fists as Bane and his opponent continue their vendetta.

The booker frowns, clearly now more interested in taking his bet money than stopping the brawl, and calls over two men, who are quickly joined by another two as they fight to break the ongoing violence apart.

There fumes a burst of disappointing sighing as the two are finally wrenched apart- the crowd were clearly enjoying the brutal turn the fist-fight had taken. The Booker set about claiming his bets, proclaiming, Andri explained, that since neither party had won, all bets were loosing bets and he would be keeping all the winnings. Another fight breaks out between a small group to his right because of this, which the Booker quickly sets about taking more bets on.

I watch, thankful to God that it's over, as Carrieveau, wielding a half-conscious Bane, makes his way over to our cells, followed shortly by Firdos and Barsad, who are still buzzing excitedly like two schoolgirls. I reach straight for the key and head for the main door, desperate to get Bane cleaned up and make sure he's okay.

Almost instantly all the animocity against Bane seems to be put to one side in Andri's mind, and he begins laying out medical equipment and asking Andri to clear the bed and wipe down the surfaces with cold water, which he had already began doing even before he was asked. Feeling useless, I stand in the doorway a moment and watch the four approaching, before Andri snaps me back to reality and pulls me back inside, telling me to go and fetch the razor, 'just incase'. I hate to think what medical procedure bane might require with the services of a blunt blade, but try not to think of it and drop the key to the floor and sweep into the bathroom to collect the cut-throat.

When I come back out, the four are at the door, Carrieveau trying to squeeze both Bane and himself through the doorway at the same time, which is proving to be difficult with them both being such large individuals.

Barsad and Firdos slip in behind them, fussing over Bane with now worried expressions as he is lay down on the freshly cleaned cot. Andri shoos the pair away through the door to the other cell and sets about his examination; he mutters what he sees to Bobby in Arabic, who knots back suggestions of how to proceed through his own vast knowledge.

From what I can see, the damage could have been worse- though it's still pretty bad.

Bane's left eye has closed up from one too many punches, his already unstable jaw looks a little out of place again and the cut dealt to him by the glass Dandachi held is doing him no favours- it's deep at the fleshy part of his lips, then thins out again at the firmer skin. It's longer than I origionally thought, ending just above his nostril and grazing his chin, fading into his jawline. It bleeds clogged red and is the first thing Andri sets about working on.

Bane's chest is just generally swollen, especially the line of his collar bone which I think might be fractured; Andri moves his hand under Bane to check the area where he was stabbed before, and when he brings it back there's a little brownish-red membrane of blood across it. Ungraciously he demands Bane be flipped over, and the barley-stirring man gives a whispery groan as he's moved by Carriveau, with the not-so-useful 'assistance' of Firdos and Barsad.

Andri, frustrated with the two getting in the way, sends the them outside of the cell, where they remain sitting for the next half an hour or so as Andri works on the minor injuries Bane has been awarded. He is particularly frustrated with the fact that the almost-healed stab wound has been mildly torn again, and bandages it with so much of the bandage supply I fear we may not have enough for any further injuries. Bane rouses after about fifteen minutes, but remains quiet even when I try addressing him. After another five minutes, I try again.

"Bane?" I say, with an unfamiliar clarity.

This time he stirs a little, head cocking against the board of the cot as he makes eye contact with me, and I feel my chest skip a little with an unfamiliar feeling, something like relief but a little more...

well, _more. _

"Is it that bad?" He says, reading my facial expression.

"You're pretty messed up," I admit, pressing a cold, wet wedge of cloth to his lips. He jolts a little from the surprise of it, the cold water running down the sides of his face, and, as he opens his lips to speak, into his mouth.

"You should see the other guy," he says, attempting a smile then wincing at the effort of it as it draws the ripped skin of his lips tighter.

"Careful," I say, pushing the cloth to the wound again, and he closes his eyes. I stare at him, wounded as he is, and sigh a little.

"What?" He says, hearing it even over the usual prison racket.

"Nothing," I reply solidly, and press a little harder than I probably need to.

**AN:**

**Question Time:**

**Story Playlist: was discussing the story with a reader who emailed me, and we were talking about making a playlist for the story. If anyone has any ideas of songs which would go with Condemned which you'd like to contribute, or any other queries, pop it in the reviews section or contact me:**

**Email: passmeanotherbiscuit yahoo. co. uk**

**DA: shazammize. deviantart gallery/**

**(obviously without the spaces ;D)**

**until next time! x**


	18. Chapter 18: Infection

**Chapter Eighteen: Infection**

**AN: I know it's been forever- I lost the document of Condemned, but obladee, obladaa, I saved it from the depths of Mordor and here we are- enjoy, cublets!**

Bane sleeps solidly through the night- I sit watching him through most of it, unable to sleep. I look at the half-bandaged cleft across his lips, and a horrible feeling comes over me that it might scar.

I think back to the day we first met; how I'd been so scared of him, and how the softness of his features had put me at ease, somehow reassured me even when I knew nothing about him other than his name.

"Bane," I say out loud to myself, without even thinking. His muscular form, bruised from yesterday's fight, twitches slightly. I watch the muscles slowly relax again as he falls back into peaceful sleep.

Morning calls too quickly and awakens all of the cell's inhabitants. Everyone is up by the end of the day's sunrise, because once one person is awake the bustle of the prison is near impossible to sleep through. Though awake, Bane says nothing and lies completely still, eyes blinking slowly. Gently I take a damp cloth to the cut on his face and re-dress the wound- I'm surprised when he doesn't push me off in favor of his own independence. It feels wrong, covering up his gentle face, as though a part of him is missing without the visibility of his smooth lips.

"Out of the way," Andri proclaims in his usual tone, taking my seat and reaching around to see to the opening in Bane's stab wound, of which he is concerned in case of infection.

"I have hardly any anti-biotics," he tells me,

"Which means that, if infection does take hold, which it may well do in this filthy place, there is little I can do to stop it."

"You mean-" I ask with worry, remembering that whilst silent, Bane is still awake, "-he could... he could die?"

Andri wipes an alcohol-drizzled rag over the blistered laceration. "It is a possibility," he says.

"Which is why we must do our up most to seal the wound, and keep it clean."

"Okay," I say with a bewildered determination, trying to focus myself. It feels so much better when I've something to actually do- my laundry duties, for example. Having an aim to focus on, a goal to reach- which is now preventing any sort of infection entering Bane's system- is far better than sitting and moping, reminiscing on times which can never be again.

With a sudden stab, as though a hot poker has just been shoved into my stomach, I remember my family. The shock is so violent and full of anguish that I feel for a few seconds that I may actually through up.

How long has it been, since they have even entered my mind?

Days?

_Weeks?_

The thought that I could have forgotten- that I _did_ forget- makes me want to weep, and I suddenly hate myself. I make my excuses and fumble to the bathroom, where I sink into the corner and wrap my arms around myself in an inconceivably pathetic manner, cold, wet tears beaming down my sullen face as I realize truly realize for the first time that I am never going to see any of them again, no-one I love, no one who loves me back-

Then I think for a moment-

But no.

I must have been gone for at least half an hour but neither Andri nor Bobby mention my absence when I return, perhaps out of embarrassment for me.

Bane has drifted back into a warm slumber, the highlights of his face lifted out by the stripes of sunlight seething through the bars. I gently smooth the crusted blood from the gash in his lips, then rinse and re-apply the bandage. Several other prisoners come to collect or deliver their washing, but after the first wash I decide to close up shop as it were, though the next few hours seem to show that business is not as booming with the presence of Bane anyway.

"Even when your ill everyone's scared of you," I remark, brushing back the hair from my face as I eat the stew Andri has provided.

"Not everyone," Bane says, and something in his voice sounds cold. I look up to see he has turned his head to the cell bars behind me. An odd sense of forshadowing overcomes me and I turn my head slowly, not really wanting to see what waits behind me.

But sure enough, walking at a dull pace approaching our cell is Bane's opponent, the man who did this to him.

Dandachi.

And before he even reaches the bars of the cell, the huge man raises his hand to the level of his eyes then crumples to the ground; no signs of life other than the gentle parting of his lips as he lies unconscious in the dirt.

Andri scoops up the weakened man with the help of Firdos and Barsad and hauls him into the cell. Carrieveau appears outside the cell a few minutes later, eyebrows furrowed, and Bobby huddles to the door and lets him in. I watch as they lay him down on Andri's bunk and begin peeling away scraps of fabric the robust man has plastered to his face to halt the bleeding of a wound there- I gag as it is revealed to be a gaping wound seared through his eye, actually _through _it, slicing open the tender surface and splitting the man's upper eyelid so that it flaps above the dry blood-shot ball itself in two ruffled, drooping sections. The entire thing is crusted dark red, with a yellowish puss which has developed in the corners and flows beneath his lower lid, glazing his pupil with every half-blink.

Andri takes a deep intake of breath and calls Bobby to him- the older man listens as Andri explains the full extent of what he can see, clearly vying for the ex-physician's more than capable memory on how to treat more extreme wounds. Even though Bobby gives his reply in Arabic, his gestures make it clear even to me what must be done;

_Cut it out._

I shudder at the thought- and, as Andri peels back the cloven eyelid, I really am sick.

I spend the next ten minutes cleaning up my own vomit, after which Andri orders me to the bathroom while he prepares to remove Dandachi's infected mess of an eyeball. There are faint squelching sounds from the other side of the door, accompanied by repulsed moans from the observers, and it's not long before Firdos bursts into the bathroom aswell. I put my hand on his shoulder as he throws up a pungent mess of porridge-based sludge, my eyes closed, breathing through my mouth to avoid the rancidity.

There is a hoarse cry from Dandachi- clearly whatever anesthetics Andri and Bobby have managed to administer are not doing their job quite well enough. The procedure has taken round about twenty minutes so far, though it feels like forever.

Firdos and I remain in the bathroom, queasy and silent, our backs pressed to the wall with tension. I watch his face a moment as Dandachi releases a unfathomably loud shriek, and Firdos' pinched features tense and contort with it as though it was his own eye being excavated. A few minutes pass, and Carrieveau calls to us, saying- as the gist I catch would suggest- that it's all over and we can come back through. I follow Firdos lead just encase, and have to brace myself against the bloody mess which now makes up a large proportion of Dandachi's face. The eyeball, streaked a clear glassy red and with the appearance of a half-deflated balloon, has been gunged into a near-empty left over bowl of watery oats, turned a flushed shade of pink by the gore. The inhabitants of the room, all excluding Bane, Dandachi, Firdos and myself, are tethering over the sludge and deciding what to do with it. Dandachi himself is mindless with pain, Carrieveau and Barsad both having to use an arm to restrain him. Firdos quickly lends a helping hand in holding down the agonized Dandachi, clearly trying to block out the shaky conversation as to the fate of the dead eye.

"What should I do?" I ask no-one in particular, feeling utterly useless and wanting to be of some assistance.

"Nothing," Andri states as he moves swiftly about, bandaging up the entire right side of Andri's head, "I know specks of dust which are of more use in medical emergencies than you are... go see to Bane."

Bane, I realize is in need of no assistance at all; he sits watching Dandachi's wailing form in silence, an expression which I can only describe as sadistic spreading across his archaic face in a crewel grimace. The vigor in it makes me almost want to stay in the cell with the unshelled eye rather than face whatever emotions are coursing through his veins at this moment.

I slip through the metal bar of the cell join and sit opposite Bane, no not in the eyeline of the goings-on of the other cell, and wait quietly for nothing in particular, until Dandachi is seduced by the loving depths of unconsciousness and the agonized groaning sounds cease. As they do, a soft mirthful laughter bubbles around Bane's throat; and the break in his lips tears a little more and he winces. Andri hands one of the unused but damp cloths through the bars and Bane holds it to the blood now dripping from his lip. I move to redress it, but Bane pushes me away without acknowledgement and proceeds to hassle Andri.

"So," he says in English, supposedly for my benefit, "What's the diagnosis, doc?"

Andri scowls, then ushers out the excitable Barsad and his friend, and says darkly, "there is a good chance the infection will already have spread. It may kill him, it may not. The next couple of days will tell."

"Why wouldn't he have come earlier?" I ask, although I'm quite sure I already know the answer.

"Pride," Andri replies, almost spitting the word asthough even the sound of the thing is trivial, "nothing more than that. And to what merit is pride when you're pushing up daisies, so to speak? What good is pride when worms are eating away your eyeballs because pride has brought you to your death?"

"Eyeball," Bane corrects, that smarmish grin still printed on his face with no intention of moving. We all sort of wince at the sickly quality of the joke, and as Andri leaves to go and scrounge bandage fabric for the promise of my laundry services, Dandachi sleeps and Bane gloats.

"You shouldn't say things like that," I scold uneasily as Bane makes a particularly crewel jest at Dandachi's current predicament.

"And why shouldn't I?" He quips back, a dangerous look on his face, although he doesn't attempt to look at me. I don't answer, knowing he'll twist whatever I say into conflict when he's in a mood such as this.

When Andri comes back, he gives Bane permission to sit outside with Bobby in his spot fir a while, enjoying the glow of the fire as it prepares to do battle with the coolness of the coming night. Andri directs me as his assistant, slicing his newly-found and washed cloths into the sizes he directs, then disposing of the rancid, blood and puss sodden bandages he peels back from Dandachi's eye socket in order to clean the hole.

"When are you going to get rid of that thing?" I say uncomfortably, referring to the split casing in the bowl on the side which used to hold the components of a fully structured eyeball. I avoid looking at it at all costs, though there's a tiny ember of curiosity and captivation somewhere in my glands which just wants to stare and stare at it all day.

At hearing my comment, Andri moves to the bowl and picks it from the crate with the hand not holding a wet rag. Then, asthough it were the most common thing in the world, he wonders out into the ring of men around the fire and pours the sloppy contents of the bowl into the flames. There is a quick popping and a crackle as the heat adjusts to consume the once treasured organ.

Andri walks back into the cell, having had me hold the door shut as he ventured out those few moments. Andri drops the wooden bowl into my half-filled washing bowl and goes back to work asthough eye disposal by combustion is a general thing, not to be taken any note of.

"I'm not washing that," I say, and I mean it. Trying to eradicate the plopping sounds as the eye and it's contents smacked against the logs and kindle wood, I ask Andri, "how long will it be before you know for sure whether he'll live or not?"

"As I said earlier, two or three days should be enough- but it's nowhere near certain. Only time will show whether or not their feud-" he looks to Bane- "is at last to end."

"Time?" I say, dwelling on the simplicity of the word. I stay silent a moment, steadily applying a final bandage atop one of Dandachi's less severe wounds.

"Well, we have plenty of that- Don't we?"


	19. Chapter 19: Time

**Chapter Nineteen: Time**

** AN: check out my DA for the playlist, complied by reader suggestions not too long ago- link at the end of the chapter ;D**

**enjoy and tell all your friends! :P**

"How long?" I ask Andri as he re-bandages the wound for the fourth time this morning.

Dandachi's condition has blistered and deteriorated in the last three days, just as Andri had predicted. Bane has watched every second of Dandachi's demise with acute attention, and, by the sickening scowl which seems to be permanently etched onto his face, he is savoring every millisecond of it.

"No need to look so smug," I say coldly, refusing to look at him as I cut another line of bandage. I feel him turn his eyes on me for a moment. He huffs and continues his sadistic crusade.

"How long?" I ask Andri again, not satisfied with being ignored.

This time, he acknowledges me with a glance and moves to my side.

"Time is not a thing you should be worrying about," he whispers down at me.

"How long?" I say again, silently wishing for him to move a little further away. It's very rare we two maintain such close proximity- Andri is intensely prone to keeping his distance. Now that he's so close, it feels asthough some silent archaic rule has been compromised.

"Three, maybe four days," he says casually.

"And then...?"

"All of this- pettering ends. And so does he. Permanently."

Dandachi wails asthough his intestines are being dragged out. I wince, moving instinctively closer to the pathetic wretch which used to be such an imposing character, asthough my presence might offer a little comfort. With a firm hand, Andri pulls me over to the washing area, where a pile of laundry has turned into a mountain.

"You have work to do," he scolds, gesturing for me to kick myself into gear.

"Well, the last few days have been a little busy, don't you think?" I retain, crouching down over the heap of rags and beginning to organize them into more manageable piles.

"Move them," Bane says monotonously.

"Hmm?" I reply, sensing the chill in his voice and preparing myself for whatever might be on it's way.

"The clothes and your washing things. Move them into this side. Now."

I stop still.

"_'Now?'_" I say, unable to stop myself, "are you really going to start beckoning me like I'm some sort of puppy dog?"

"For the love of God, woman, for once cease the constant stream of defense."

"'Constant stream?!'" I repeat, genuinely aggravated "me? You're the one who's so consistently uptight you won't let me near you half of the time, and now suddenly you're calling me to-and-fro, left, right and center?"

A thick silence stirs and in the midst of it Andri gathers up the bowls and takes them out to be refilled for lunch. He stops by Bobby's side and they talk for a few seconds, leaving only Bane, the dying man and myself in the sweltering hot cell.

"Leave him," Bane says unexpectedly, almost pleading. "Allow him to die. He deserves it." He stops again.

"Personally, I cannot wait."

I'm unsure at this point as to whether or not Dandachi is conscious, but he doesn't retaliate, regardless of whatever state of sleep he is in.

"Have some compassion," I say, sounding surprisingly tired, and I know my body and mind has thrown away all forms of defense or onslaught towards how bane might act. I just stare at him through the cold bars, my eyes asking him for far more than just compassion- asking for something to complex for my mind to even begin to peel apart.

"I have none," Bane says plainly, staring right at me. "None at all. None for you, none for myself..." He points a finger at the spot where Dandachi lies, slowly deteriorating into a corpse.

"And certainly none for _him._"

He coughs, a vicious sort of thing which breaks through his solid chest and ricochets off the walls of his throat. My upset subsides a minute or so as he breaks into a full-fledged coughing fit, and I move to his side of the cell to find him some water. He drinks it gratefully then, once the coughing has stopped, looks at the floor with a defeated, small expression which I should imagine mirrors my own at this moment.

"Just move back over this side a while. Please."

Within ten minutes my washing station has transferred over to Bane and Bobby's cell. I keep an eye on Dandachi, who sleeps undisturbed apart from the odd groan. Bane has a bit of a funny turn, and I make him lie down, suffering a minute panic attack at the incident which gradually dissolves as Bane returns to normal.

"If that was me lying there," he says, "would you care for me in the same way you've fussed over him these past few hours?"

"You know I would," I reply, holding a cold cloth to his forehead to cool him, "ten-fold."

I pause a moment, unsure whether or not to ask.

"And what if it were me? Would you care?"

He closes his eyes and the lids flutter gently. He re-opens them and stares straight up at the cracks in the grey ceiling.

I move to prompt him, but just before I do he says, "you know the answer."

I think about that for a long time.

He seems on the surface not to even like me half of the time, let alone care about me, but the way he always seems to save me from threat- surely, there must be something there. Mustn't there?

_you know the answer._

"Do I?" I ask into the silence, but when I look down I find that Bane's eyes are closed, and he is entwined in the depths of dreaming.

I lie down on the floor next to him, and try to imagine the thoughts of a man so lost.

It's several hours before I wake up, and when I do, Bane is still sleeping. I look over to see that Dandachi still sleeps, too. On the floor next to his bunk lie a pile of clothes which someone has pushed through the bars to be washed. Quietly as I can, I slip through Bane's half into the side where Dandachi lies, intent on collecting the clothes. As I bend to pick them up, humming to myself, I decide that I'll change Dandachi's dressings; then I'll get started on all these clothes. I must be three, maybe four days behind on my laundry duties. I suppose we'll have no soap again.

I bundle up the clothes and make to stand.

Just as I do, a thick hand clasps itself over my mouth.

**AN: LE GASP!**

**all i can say is: it's all gonna hit the fan next chapter. And when it's hitting the fan, it's hitting the fan HARD.**

**playlist link: art/Condemned-Playlist-355274572**


	20. Chapter 20: Scorn

**Chapter Twenty:**

**Scorn**

**AN: boop-do-de-doop-boop**

_I bundle up the clothes and make to stand._

_Just as I do, a thick hand clasps itself over my mouth._

My first thought, strange as it is, is that it's Bane, snuck through the bars between the two cells and doing this to surprise me. I raise my hand to his and try swiping it away playfully.

Except it doesn't move- the grip tightens.

A little less teasingly this time, I try to move the hand again, but the tension in it increases to the point where it becomes painful- I twist my head to pull away and try to pry the fingers from over my mouth with no success I feel pressure on my neck and find myself suddenly on my feet- under the cloak of almost-night there is barely a flicker from outside- I see the shadows of a group of men the other side of the circle, drenched in the glow of fire and alcohol. I recognize the silhouette of Bobby. Twisting my head again, I let out a muffled plea for release as I try to get away. Looking to my right, I see Bane, still asleep, curled over on his back like some sleeping beast whose mere form demands attention. I buck against the hold and find I can't shake it, exhuming another low murmur. A finger hushes me atop the hand already over my mouth, and I swing my fist back and punch at my assailant.

How can he be awake, let alone have the strength to attack me?

Since his arrival he can barely stand, let alone have the strength or the willpower to do this- has he been faking it, the strength and rapidness of the infection? All just part of some revenge scheme against Bane, another twisted move in their personal war against one another? Surely Andri would have realized- surely-

Then there's a shiver of something in the cell and fire spreads through my bones. It's not Dandachi.

I shut my eyes tight as realization seeps in through my pores. With all the force I can muster, I force my body around, snapping them open so that I'm face to face with-

"Nas?!" I say, the spin having broken his hold. The whole thing seems so ludicrous that I-

He smacks his palm back over my mouth and pulls a blade to my neck. I gasp beneath his grip and pull away from it, reeling as he silently lugs me into the bathroom and out of sight. He shimmy's over to the back wall and holds me there with his body weight.

"Shhh," he faintly whispers, giving it a second before taking his palm from my face. I go to scream and he slams it back there. The sharpness of it jolts my head back against the wall and makes more of a noise than probably my screaming could have. He winces, unnerved but determined.

For some reason, even with the blade at my neck, it's not fear that swims through my veins, or even anger- both are overruled by simple astonishment. He feels my lips move under his hand in question and slowly removes it, ready to bounce back into action should I make anything above a whisper.

"How did you get in here?" I stark in astoundment, and he leans in closer, that familiar smirk brushing his features and says, "do you not remember our night together those many months ago? I got into Bane's then, did I not? And you remember this, I should think?" He draws the long pin he used to pick Bane's lock all those months ago from thin air and winks. "You'd be surprised how much practice it took, sneaking in and out of cells and taking necessities, to get to the skilled picker of locks I am now. Saw my opportunity as I passed while you all slept. Hid in this room until you awoke-"

"What do you want?" I half-spit, my inner self remorsefully knowing what the answer will be but refusing to acknowledge it. I think of screaming Bane's name at the top of my lungs but then look down at the knife teetering beside my neck and, although for the moment I'm quite sure Nas wouldn't go so far as to actually use it, I'm not quite ready to take the risk.

I make to smack him and he elbows my arm out of the way.

"Where are my clothes?" He says.

I stare at him, so stunned struggle doesn't even cross my mind.

"What?"

"You ought have washed them. That's your job."

"You break in here over the fucking laundry!?" I spit angrily at him.

"Well, when will it be done?" He says, pinning back one of my hands.

"Get out," I say as I boil with rage, leaning away from his body.

"Well if you're not going to do give me back my clothes I suppose you'll have to pay me back in some other way," he says, his weight shifting. "Perhaps I'll take yours instead-"

He goes to finger the collar of my dress and I slap his hand away with an animalistic hiss. He backs off a second like a vulture unsure as to whether or not it's prey has died yet or is still clinging on to life's tepered threads.

"Take it off," he says.

I stare at him a moment, more through disbelief than shock or anything else.

"Take off your dress."

This time triggers a reaction, and I spit at him. He raises his hand and before I can deflect I feel a sharp sting across my cheek. He lunges closer, pressing the knife deeper against my flesh. I go to shout Bane's name but he puts even more pressure on it, so much so that I feel the skin give a little and wince at the sting.

He glances down at the spot, where supposedly a bead of blood now rests upon. I sense the bead swell until it can no longer hold it's own weight, and the warm liquid leaks down into the hollow of my neck. Nas smears it away with the tip of the blade and leaves the sharp point in the cleave. He taps it along my collar bone, then whispers close to my face, "I've waited long enough."

I raise my hand to deflect the knife and catch it's handle in my fingers- with a sharp movement Nas slices it away and it sears a thick horizontal cleft across my palm. I hiss at him again, and his hand swipes at my neck so that he is holding the back of my head tightly, his fingers pulling at my loose hair. The other hand, still clasping the jagged knife, fumbles with the collar of my dress- with magnificent adrenaline-fueled speed I grab the knife again, it's edge once again slashing my palm, and manage to wrench it from his hand; I smack the hilt of it against his face and he reels a moment, in which I call out Bane's name, then manage to elbow him in the face before Nas slams the blade out of my clutches and it clatters with a loud metallic clanging in the corner of the room. He wrestles with my wrists, clearly disorientated from the blow to the face, and I begin laughing, sadistically pleased to see that I've drawn blood. The whole scene would be comical were it not so obscure.

"You've had it now," I smirk, a ring of laughter echoing my voice, "He'll of heard that. Bane. You'd best get the hell out of here while you still can, Nas, cuz if he finds you he's gonna kick your-"

Nas has released my one wrist and between his fingers is now pinched a metal ring, from which dangles two rusted, copper-green keys. I freeze, dumbstruck.

"You _must _tell the old man to stop leaving the keys on the stool between the two cells. It would be only too easy for an- uh- intruder to reach through the bars and hide them, say. So that anyone in said adjoining cell would be of no use if needed."

I look at the keys a minute, the meaning of them catching me out. Bane can't leave his side of the cell- not without that key.

"Give me-!"

I make a grab for them but Nas quickly flings them away in the direction of the fallen knife. I jump forwards to go after them but he grabs me by the back of my dress, slamming me into the back wall. I thrash out, clawing at him with my hands, before managing a sharp dig at his crotch. He grunts a little and I scream out for help again, body moving towards the keys again- Nas' hand locks into the back of my hair and pulls me back, slamming me head-first into the wall with the shard of mirror and the shelf nailed onto it- he smacks my forehead off the reflective glass twice, my neck catching on the shelf and I cry out from the pain, gagging to breathe, neck screaming and head spinning- I hear tearing at the hem of my dress, and I struggle in vain against his weight.

_Help-_

I wriggle one arm free from underneath me, vision hooded by my lack of oxygen, and feel around for something- anything- to bludgeon this bastard with. I'm too winded to scream, and by Nas' declaration of the keys, it would hardly be of any use anyway-

I hardly notice as his hands run up the backs of my legs; my head hurts, it hurts so much-

"Help!" I manage, but it's barely more than a squeak, choked and desperate, as I watch a shattered version of my reflection quivering at me from the now-broken mirror. My head lolls from the heaviness of it all, the weariness fogging my brain and I suddenly want to sleep-

_You can't sleep-_

Just close my eyes-

I hear Nas fondling the buckle of his belt-

_No-_

For a second-

_No!_

I let my head fall onto my chest, the last strains of consciousness drifting away, when a strange glint of light squeezes through my lids from below me. I awaken my eyes a little more and, like a dark twist of blessed gift from the heavens lies my salvation, fallen from the shelf into the make-shift sink after my head and neck were brutalized- a satisfyingly blunt cut-throat razor.

I reach for it, clinging to the last threads of my consciousness, and find it's cold aura in my bleeding palm.

_This time I won't be aiming for the back of the knee,_ I think, allowing the blade to unfold in my hand. I jar forwards an inch then squeeze the handle of the razor and force my body to turn. Nas shoots me a look and tries to force me back around, to which I squeeze the thumb of my free hand into his eye socket with a repulsive squish- he growls and releases me for a split second, in which I fully turn myself around and flick out the razor, heavy weights tugging at my half-conscious state, as I push him away and raise the blade up to chest level, ready to drive it into his stomach, and perhaps somewhere even more fatal on my second lunge.

As I move to strike, adrenaline sliding through my veins and agitating my synapses, a hand looms out of the darkness and takes Nas by the neck. I freeze, glance at the blade in my hand and then back to Nas, who is fumbling to break the hands away from him, as they snake up to either side of his neck. Nas struggles to turn to face his attacker, screaming in staunched Arabic as the hands clasp his head. With a short, sharp movement and a crackling of bones and a ripple of popping noises, Nas' head breaks loose of his spine and nests on his chest a moment, before the bringer of his judgement drops his useless carcass to the floor, where it lands with an undemanding thud.

I stare at his body, crumpled and broken. The blade in my hand glitters as it falls to the floor, and I watch it lie beside the mass of dead body. I look up slowly, unable to confront Nas' executioner.

"Bane..." I whisper, finally ready to raise my hooded eyes.

I look up and Dandachi watches me for a split second before walking out of the room.

**AN: O_O**

**I'm officially a murderer. **

**I wasn't originally gonna kill Nas off, cuz i kinda like(d) him, smarmy git that he was. But alas, 'to love is to destroy' and all that jazz. **

**it was originally going to pan out differently- if you wanna know how it would have gone down, let me know and i'll message you or pop it in the next chapters AN.**

**Guys, tell me who you thought it was. Go on, you know you want to. :)**

**TELL ME WHO YOU THOUGHT IT WAS GONNA BE... i'm curious :3**

**R&R, delicious readers**

**and in the wise words of PPP's A. Dumbledore: **

**'au revoir, little biscuit!' :3**


	21. Chapter 21: Mind Games

**Chapter Twenty-One: Mind Games**

**AN: ohrrmerh, 20,000 views? dead. actually almost dead. I love you people. here, take an imaginary cookie. Or a real one, y'know, but you won't be getting it from me.**

_I stare at his body, crumpled and broken. The blade in my hand glitters as it falls to the floor, and I watch it lie beside the mass of dead body. I look up slowly, unable to confront Nas' executioner._

_"Bane..." I whisper, finally ready to raise my hooded eyes._

_Dandachi looks me for a split second then walks out of the room. _

My head rests against the heel of the sink. I have been sat here for all eternity, trapped in some chasm of time. My eyes are unsure of whether they should be open or closed, and only pick up fragments of my surroundings; colour and blurred outlines. As time hauls itself slowly forwards like a sluggish man burdened with a yolk, the lines begin to sharpen and the colors even out; shiny objects. Two keys, flung into a deserted corner. Broken shards of glass which throw my own face back at me. A discarded shaving razor, gleaming and winking in the tailored moonlight.

And still more things; a bar of soap, fallen from a shelf. Blood, battered across the palms of hands. Are those _my _hands? I flex the muscles and see that they are.

There is a rancid smell lingering in the air, not typical of what you'd expect from a bathroom. I glance down to find my other hand slicked with what would appear to be vomit. Is that mine, too?

Well, it must be.

The only other guy in here's stone-cold _dead._

I scuff my feet a little further away from the twisted body as reality soothes back to me.

Flashes of the events snap into my frontal lobe;

A hand in the darkness. Glass, broken. A belt buckle. A thick arm, wrenched around his throat. Dandachi's pale eyes.

And then this.

I assume I blacked out at some point; my conscious mind seemed unable to cope with the pain and shortness of breath brought about by- what was it now?- a memory of my head being smashed against glass resurfaces in my mind; I raise my blood-dried hand to the place where it impacted, but find that the bruises tether around my neck. I remember the shelf. I swallow, and the pain comes back.

Nas' corpse lies crumpled on the deserted floor, neck twisted like a broken china doll. He lies face down, knees still a little buckled. I wonder if his eyes are closed. _Should I be the one to close them?_

I- I've never seen a dead body before. Apart from the clammy skin and distorted pose, it seems oddly... _natural._ A thought comes to mind that I might use the warmth of Nas' skin as some sort of indication of how long I've been out, and I recoil at my own idea.

Shock renews itself as something evolved and more vulgar- _guilt._

But why should I feel guilty? It's not my fault. Nas brought it on himself, didn't he? But then I look at his withered body, twisted around itself in such an inhumane way that I wretch and have to drag myself to the rim of the latrine to vomit. I stay there a few minutes, vaguely aware of the shaky sobs rattling my rib cage and bruising my insides.

After some time I find myself on my feet, and realize that my body is taking me to the door of the room. I pick up the fallen key on my way and tell myself not to look down as I cross the floor, quivering across it with my eyes steadily focused on my destination. The old curtained construct gives way with a heavy creek, and I shy my way back into the main cell, back into the noise of the prison, deafened by the cold of night. Crickets can be heard from the world above, their croaking songs teasing we trapped in this pit like the wail of a siren. It seems somehow ironic that I should be the only one to succumb to the call.

And so the chasm of night churns on, searing its moans through creaks of metal and the grinding of dirt under long-oppressed campfire feet. I slump with my back against the connecting pewter-grey bars; alone and cold, I hear the warm breathing behind me. I allow my fingers, white as carved bone and shivering, to pass blindly through the cleft in-between two of the metal slits that divide my view of the world into hot, void strips of light and occasional colour.

I find the warm fingers of a thick hand and clutch gently to them like some kind of ethereal talisman. And here I sit, by myself on the edge of the world, at what seems to be both the beginning and the end locked behind bars of misogynistic values as I wait, needlessly, for the blur of night into the burnt day.

Of course, being so low down, midday is the only real time you could call this place 'bright', but the subtle changes in light as night dances through to morning suddenly seem profane, carrying with them a slow vulgarity which makes me wish the night had bled through to day a little slower than physics would allow.

I lie with my head against the soft down of my flat cot. Bobby must have returned from the campfire in the mid level some time after all that happened, during one of the rare bursts through which I was able to sleep, and now lies in slumber across his own bed adjacent to Bane's. Bane sleeps. Dandachi sleeps. I shudder.

The lock screams a few minutes later as Andri returns. He tries for the key and fails. He whispers me awake, and with jittering fingers I find the key I brought back through with me from the hunch where Nas' void corpse lies and brush it across the floor and out of the door to the cell.

"You look rough," he says passively pushing past the creaking bars and locking them shut. He places them in their usual place and stare blankly at them, glinting early silver in the dull morning. I rest my head back against the bars with a grave expression as Andri briefly checks on the welfare of my savior before slinking towards the bathroom door. I hear him enter and, with a startling thud, the door closes shut again.

Andri states, with well-veiled shock,

"There is a dead man in the bathroom."

I nod.

"A very dead man. Neck broken, it would seem."

I nod again.

"A Mr. Nas, I believe."

"Yes," I reply.

Andri comes and sits opposite the place where the keys rest, on the edge of his bunk which is now mostly taken up by Dandachi. The stagnancy of the conversation clogs the air around us, and I feel my chest tighten in a dull fashion.

"He has not moved the body," Andri rumbles.

"It wasn't Bane."

Andri looks at me then, the surprise vague on his face.

"Ah. How did you-"

I point at Dandachi, his heavy chest conceiving and convexing steadily.

Andri seems for a moment asthough he might give out in confusion as he registers what I mean, but a glaze of composure drifts over his features and he gives a slow, well-practiced nod of the head.

Time drools by as we both stare into space, streamed by thought creating a thin, tangible membrane between the two of us.

"He deserved it," I say after the longest time, asthough to speak the words might affirm them in my own mind.

Andri just nods, that familiar gesture which lies abundant in so many of my countenances nowadays. As light lifts into the room, the dry gears of cogency yearn themselves back into some sort of life and I measure my way to my feet. I can't bare to look at anyone, living or dead, so I simply stand at the bars. Andri and I struggle as hard as possible to ignore the elephant striding through the room.

"Has Bane woken up yet?" Andri asked. I shake my head, and he says, "I think he's getting worse. He has been asleep more, I think. Talking less, too. He had an odd moment; I thought at first he was simply talking in his sleep, but now that I think of it, perhaps it was hallucinations which brought on his speaking."

"You think he's got the infection?"

"Perhaps. Not that it matters- his actual wounds are a lot better equipped to deal with such things now, anyway. Have you noticed anything strange recently?"

I let my mind wonder back over the past few days; he has been a little quieter than usual, I suppose.

"There was one thing," I tell Andri, "a couple of days ago..."

_Bane had his eyes closed, head scratching against his cot as his skin baked in the gutted sun. I pushed my hands deeper into the stagnant waters of the pool, massaging and coaxing away the impurities buried in the fabrics. Bane leaned to the side a little, blinking his eyes, then his mouth began to shudder. He had been quieter than usual, and I reached forward a little, trying to hear what he was saying. _

_"Can't fall yet, son," he murmured gently, eyes half-closed, "can't... fall yet..."_

" ... And then he was quiet again, asthough he hadn't even realized he'd said it. I thought it might have been some of that herb and salt stuff you've been burning for him, but I guess..."

"Hmm."

The prison is moving properly now, old gears twisting and locking in dusty corners, equally old men struggling with the scorched sun. Firdos approaches the bars, clothes in his arms, and hands them through to me with a smile. I stare at him in shock a moment, and his smile falters, but then I straighten my head and take them with a returned grin. He walks away, back to his and Barsad's cell, and I find myself laughing at the absurdity of it. I sit down on the floor, my face pressed between the bars, laughing hysterically. The clothes in my lap find their way to the floor and I feel a hand at my back, rubbing my shoulder-blades in an uneven, awkward moment. My body shakes and I begin to understand it is because I'm sobbing now, not laughing. I don't know how long I stay in this state, but there's a tiny whisper of my name and I find my brain clearing the fog in my mind away. The voice calls my name, a little louder this time, and I find my bowed feet again and turn. Bane's forehead is drenched with sweat and his eyes are closed. I fumble for the key a second, then push it through into the lock his side of the cell. Bobby, a bundle of starchy blankets and dripping memories, stirs a little, deep eyes glancing up at me. Bane says my name again, barley louder this time but sounding almost scared, and I sweep through to his side, bludgeoning the bastard lock until it screams open, and I kneel beside him and take his large, wet hand in both of my own. I squeeze hard, whispering to him under my breath but it's like I'm not even there. He says my name again, voice torn, and I put a hand on the side of his face and stroke the side of his hair in a motherly way.

"It's alright, Bane," I say, though I know he's completely delusional at the moment- obviously Andri was right about the oncoming infection and the effects it would have.

"He'll calm down by this afternoon," Andri says, "it's always worse for Dandachi in the morning-"

"This afternoon?!" I cry, "look at him! He needs- he needs-"

"He needs _you._ Just sit with him for now, until he's calm. He'll sleep and then he'll be alright when he wakes up. I need to go and see a man about-" Andri gestures absent-minded to the bathroom door, then pulls the key from the lock where I left it jammed and leaves.

Bane gives a pained groan and I gasp, brain buzzing. I pull myself away from him for a second, Bobby, reading my mind, grabs for a glass, and I take it into the-

Oh.

I feel myself wretch as I witness again the murdered body of Nas, but have to push myself past it to fetch some water from the systern at the back of the room. Trying to steady my breathing, I plunge the cup beneath the pale water and draw up a cup of it. From behind me, there's a terrible succession of clicking noises and, heart stopped I turn my head.

"Fucking... bitch," Nas' corpse wheezes, slumped into a kneeling position like a broken puppet, shattered neck resting on his jaunted shoulder.

I feel my body scream and drop the cup; it rolls for a second then stops against a shard of broken mirror rested by Nas' feet.

"Your… fault…"

Stunned, I blink my eyes and everything stops- Nas' body is still crumpled up on the floor, lifeless as ever, making no accusations or insults. My heart races in my chest and I quake, eyes wide, as I reach for the cup. Carefully I pick it up and sweep it back through the water, eyes not leaving the now still corpse.

Bobby appears in the doorway, expression faltering as his eyes fall on Nas' dead body. He stares at it, eyes bulging from his small skull, then gulps and comes over to help me up. I take his hand and allow him to lead me over the body, hideously shaken and allowing a trickle of water to gasp its way over the rim of the cup.

Bane says my name again in an almost childish way, straightening out the threads of my thought as it has the last few times he's called; I push my own hallucinations to the back of my mind and focus on him- nothing else.

He refuses the water, too out of it to even recognize what it is; his eyes pinch shut and for a few minutes he just holds my arm, so tight I know it will leave bruises when he lets go, and I have to pinch back tears from the pain it's causing. Bobby sits on Andri's bed, looking through into the bathroom, eyes clearly locked on the corpse of a man he's probably never even seen down here before. Bane practically growls, his other hand now pushing against his forehead to shield his eyes from whatever he's experiencing; sick with worry, I hold on to him as tightly as he holds me and simply repeat over and over,

"It's alright, Bane… it's- it's alright…"

...

**AN: so yeah... those awkward moments when there's a dead body in your bathroom. we've all been there... haven't we? 0_0**

**with regards to the alternate of the way this was going, i was gonna kill of Dandachi instead. BAD PERSON, BAD PERSON! because i hated him, and i hated the fact that i'd written him to be hated, but then i decided i would change my affections for him and make him more wuvvable. aww. i kinda liked Nas, but now he's dead. not much of a loss there, methinks. **

**ooh, hallucinations everywhere. i'd actually written a segment for introducing bane's a few chapters previous, but i must have uploaded the unedited version because i am an eegit, which is why it seems so sudden. i would go back and re-install it, but... i'm lazy. NOW... DOWN TO BUISNESS!**

**_Q's: how old is dis girl tho?_**

**A: girl/woman- she can be however old you want her to be. Unspecified reader-does-their-own-characterization ftw**

**any q's/etc, you know where to find me- visit my page-thing or send me a message/leave it in the reviews. And again, thanks for the views- seeing that counter hit 20,000 nearly blew the heart out of my chest (eww, nasty)**

**And i would have got away with it too, if it wasn't for you meddling kids!**

**R&R, pweeease? :3**


	22. Chapter 22: Corpses

**AN: ooh, i love myself for this. wink wink.**

**Chapter Twenty-Two: **

**Corpses**

Dandachi went that night.

I'd like to say there was some big, defining moment, but there wasn't. None of us even knew he'd gone until mid-morning, when his dark skin began to break through blue and grey. His eyes were already closed, and he lay slightly on one side, one hand clutching to the front of his shirt.

Both Dandachi and Nas' bodies lay outside of our cells, heads covered with cloths; Carrieveau helped Andri to remove Dandachi whist I sat with Bane, still high with fever. His hand suddenly snapped out and grabbed the fabric of my skirt, and he gave a low, hissing noise that betrayed some sort of pain. I placed my hand on top of his in a comforting fashion and he slapped it away, clinging again to my dress and moaning into his pillow.

I listened as Andri explained what had happened to a now-congregating group, whom had already seen Nas' body out earlier and were now becoming even more excited; two deaths? And in one day? Even more exciting than someone going for the climb.

"What will you do with the bodies?" I ask Andri when he finishes talking, "burn them?"

"No, no," cried Andri, "and stink out the entire prison? It's bad enough as it is without the stench of burning flesh."

"Then what?"

"The guards will take them up," Andri explained. "The rope man- the one who deals with the food supplies and the climbs- will send up a signal. They will know the dead are coming, and they will be prepared for it."

I forced myself to look at the bodies of the two men- rigmortis had already set in, so they lay twisted as they had died. Firdos and Barsad appeared up by the bars, both watching the bodies with amazement. Andri knelt down beside that of Dandachi, took hold of his leg and pulled hard.

There was a terrible lurching of bones that made the vertebrae of my spine twist together, and I cried as he grabbed for the second leg, "what the hell are you doing?!"

"The bodies are solid," Andri explained coolly, "they must be straight. How to you expect me to bandage up a twisted body like this?"

I cringed away into Bane's side as Andri snapped and popped the bones in both men, unable to escape the crippling noise.

Barsad cried out loudly, obviously in horror of the sight, and Andri scolded him for something along the lines of 'acting a girl'.

Less than an hour later both bodies are wrapped up in bundles of fabric and have been moved over into a better shaded area, the cook's corridor. Hours pass in near silence as the prison waits for night to fall and the bodies to be removed.

The moonlit darkness finds her way over the complex eventually, and a large crowd gathers underneath her. I watch from my cell, a muttering Bane beside me. He kicks at his bed with frustration through his pain, and I try to soothe him.

"Andri said to me once," I tell him, a wisp of consciousness left in me, "something about you and Dandachi." I scoff at the air, smiling at it's ludicrously.

"He said, "they will fight again and again until one of them is dead."

I laugh at the glowing air, exhaling it's icy sting.

Bane moans again and I try to give him a little water, but he refuses it. I remember my hallucination and gulp, the white of the air rushing in; I focus my mind to stop thinking of it, and find myself instead telling Bane about what happened. I'm quite sure that in this state he won't understand- perhaps that's for the better.

"He saved me," I say eventually. "He saved me from- that. And I didn't even get a chance to say thank you."

Bane bucks his head lightly against the pillow, and I wonder for a second if it's in recognition; but then, sharply, he let's out a low snore.

The crowd about the bodies ripples a little like scales on a fish, a hundred heads, lustrous and bald, reflecting the moonlight as a small body is lifted up against the face of the rock. Slowly, being pulled by the feet, Nas ascends upwards. I think for a moment of the irony in that, but it is soon brushed away as the rope man bends down to attach Dandachi to the second line of rope. Once Nas' corpse folds unceremoniously over the lip of the pit, Dandachi's begins to ascend upwards- slowly and graciously he rises, quivering up the side of the prison majestically to be glowered over the hood of our eternal damnation; oh, to escape here only by first dying. Cruel.

I close my eyes and pray; something I haven't done since my first weeks here. I pray for Dandachi and even for Nas, if he is deserving of such a grace as the blessing of God.

The crowd worms away back to it's varying cell blocks and stairways, leaving a lone figure gazing up past the moon and up, up high into the heavens. Firdos' slight frame blackens in the shadows of the night, and he stands there, watching the sky- waiting for something, anything. He stands there so long I begin to loose interest in his lack of mobility and allow myself to sleep; but I am awoken quickly by an erratic outburst of violent dreams, and when my eyes return to the real world, I see the boy is still there, but is now lay out on the dusty dirt floor, cheeks sunken by the light allowed, his fingers rubbing their way deeper into the ground asthough he wanted to simply become part of it, to not have to think so much anymore- to just exist with out all the complications existence brings.

A frosty sort of grief looms over the prison for the next few days. Everything seems to slow down, asthough time herself is in mourning- not of the loss of Dandachi and Nas, but of the loss of purpose.

Andri, with the loss of Dandachi is unsettled; without the patient, he shifts his medical concerns to Bane. He slowly recovers from his hysteria, and within four days the infection has completely passed. He stops clutching onto my hand blindly, and though guilt brushes by me when I think it, I have to admit it's a shame to see it go; ill or not, that subtle contact- minor as it was- made me feel wanted; like for once, at last, he needed me here- I wasn't just a burden he managed to yolk upon himself. And now, I knew, the second he returned to full health it would become just like it always was.

"Where's Dandachi?" Asks Bane after I explain away to him that he fell ill with a less severe strain of Dandachi's infection, as he gently rouses into bitter full recovery.

"He passed away," I say, "a few days ago. They sent him up over the top."

Bane looks blankly for a second, then a despicable expression tweaks his features.

"Don't," I say out loud, "just don't. He's dead now- dead and gone. Just have some respect, please..."

Bane laughs- actually, properly laughs aloud. The sound is thick and unsettling, and something about it reminds me of Nas.

"I did not respect that abomination of a man when he lived and I will do no such thing when he is dead. Had he a grave, I would find my way out of this hell hole just to spit on it."

I bow my head, nothing to say. I think of the way he has defiled Dandachi- a man who ultimately helped me and whose efforts on my behalf probably finished him off- and decide I won't let it happen. It's time to let him know.

"There's something I need to tell you," I say, and his expression darkens a little, his eyes and lips tightening at the corners.

"What?"

I stare for a second simply at the beard that has begun to thicken around his jaw and mouth, transfixed by the complexity of it. I realize the absurdity behind my traceless thoughts and force myself to handle reality.

"You remember Nas?" He thinks for half a second, then states boldly,

"The ratty one."

I nod, remembering hearing him calling Nas that before.

"He got in," I explain. "Got in here- picked the lock and pinned me."

"Where the hell was Andri?" Bane barks in disbelief, anger thickening his accent into something darker, more fractured.

"He was..." I realize I don't know the answer, but pick up from my drift before Bane can retaliate. "He was out. So was Bobby- you were in the early stages of hysteria and Dandachi was out like a light-"

"Where's Nas?" Bane growls, already set on getting to his feet, "if he touched you I swear I'll tear the lungs from his chest, I'll kill him-"

"There's no need," I explain gently; "He's already dead."

He looks at me, with an expression of almost horror.

"You-?"

"no-" as I allow my next word to escape my lips, my chest tightens a little. "Dandachi helped me."

Bane stares blankly for a long time, as though this information sickens him. He maintains eye contact with the wall, hastily asking, "did he- Nas, I mean- did he-"

"No," I state quickly, not even wanting to hear him say those words. "No, he… no. I'm fine."

Bane quickly stands up, and something about the movement unsettles me.

"What's wrong?" I say worriedly, unsure whether or not to approach him as he stands agitatedly facing the back wall, one hand resting upon it. "you should get back in bed, you're temperature-"

"I'm sorry," he says.

I question at first whether I heard him right, astounded at the very notion of the idea. It comes out so cracked and unwillingly it's barely audible, but it was definitely there.

"What?" I ask, easing a little further off.

He looks pained then, as though repeating the words would only make them more tangible.

"What- what for?" I say, unsure of how to deal with him- I haven't seen him like this before. It's vulnerable and open, and it's- scary.

"I should have been there," he says. "I should have been awake and alert and-"

"Don't be daft," I say, my words coming out with a delicate laugh, "you were ill, you were asleep, there's no way you could have-"

"I'm sorry," he says again, turning around to face me but still looking somewhere above my head, unable to maintain eye contact. "it should have been me and it wasn't. You needed me and I wasn't-"

Before I even realize I'm going to do it, I pull his face down to mine and hold him in a kiss.

** AN: **

**AT LAST! *squee***

**R&R for more, thanks for visiting!**

**just as a side note: i have two other stories just recently started, too, 'Imprisoned' (what's with all the prison connotation, i know ;D) and 'Ornate'. i'd really appreciate it if any of you guys might check them out- a few people so far have requested more than just a one-shot of them, but i'm not sure yet whether or not to continue with said stories- i'd appreciate your feedback/suggestions :) )**

** until next time/story, folks!**


	23. Chapter 23: Consequences

**_*MAGICAL NOTICE!*_**

**_A VERY IMPORTANT PRELUDE HAS BEEN ADDED TO CHAPTER ONE THAT BROKE MY HEART TO WRITE, AND I'M HOPING (IN THE NICEST WAY POSSIBLE) THAT IT WILL BREAK YOUR HEART TO READ. THOU MUST READ IT, LYK NOW I WUD SUGGEST, OR FOREVER MISS OUT ON THE VITAL PRELUDE. GO READ IT!_**

**_Ah, you're back! Did you read the prelude in chapter one? Good. Did it break your heart? Yesch? Good. If you haven't read it yet, then WTF ARE YOU DOING READING THIS?! GET YOUR SORRY ASS BACK TO THAT PRELUDE! _**

**_BUT ANYWAY! ONWARDS, GOOD STEED!_**

**AN: THE KISS WE'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR!**

**But is it really the dream our chick's been hoping for? Let's find out...**

**Chapter Twenty-Three:**

**Consequences**

_"I'm sorry," he says again, turning around to face me but still looking somewhere above my head, unable to maintain eye contact. "it should have been me and it wasn't. You needed me and I wasn't-"_

_Before I even realize I'm going to do it, I pull his face down to mine and hold him in a kiss._

It's faint, our lips barely grazing each other's. I press myself a little closer to him and fall deeper into the kiss, not even thinking about what I'm doing. All I know is that right now, in this very moment, this- _this_ is what I need, and all the contents of Pandora's box couldn't stop me from having it.

I don't know how long it is before I eventually break the connection. When I finally do, I look up to Bane with expectation- of what, I'm unsure. He just looks frozen, his face a characature of it's usual appearance and he just stares at me with the most ludicrous expression I could ever fathom. The silence, the not knowing what he's thinking is the unbareable part. So I do the only thing that feels right- I lean back up and press my own lips against his again, but this time it is for less than a second, as he reels his head backwards and steps sideways out of my line of fire. I watch him, now worried about what he might say or do, but he still just stares, dumb-founded.

"Bane-?"

His name passes my lips and it works like the push of a button- he spins around, moves straight up to the door and unlocks it, fumbling with the key, then dissapears straight down the cook's alley, barley stopping to re-lock and push the key back into the cell.

I watch the place where he stood with a heavy, monochromatic heart- slowly I return the key to it's home on the bedside table, and find suddenly that I am exhausted- I lie flat-out on Andri's cot, simply because it is the closest, and find not much later that I am crying- ribbons of tears dart from my eyes, leaving trails of salt across my burning cheeks. I realize quickly that the tears are not those of sadness or of upset, but are infact tears of relief- relief that something, anything has finally happened, that some contact between our two souls has been made, be it entirely one-sided or not. It is only now that the revelation that all that tension and angst had been built up in me against him, and it feels asthough now that I've done the dreaded deed, I am finally at peace, be it only until he returns to shun or lash out at me. At the moment, I couldn't care less. I smile up at the chalky cieling with it's careless cobwebs and earthen cracks and laugh passionatley to myself, chest heaving as I choke through the tears.

A day passes with no sign of Bane; Andri comes and goes as the day progresses, Firdos and Barsad appear with armfuls of clothes which need washing. I work through my boredom inch by inch, scrubbing away at the rough surfaces of worn clothing and singing quietly to myself, songs of home of which I can only remember strings of words. I fight off thoughts of my past life, of summer days spent laughing with those I have loved and ultimatley become lost to. I think of the past year spent down in this pit and all the years to come, but channel all of my emotions into the soapy water and aged fabrics between my fingers.

I catch his shadow in the doorway as night starts to fall. He comes in, doesn't say a word, and sits on the edge of his rugged bed, hands pressed against his knees.

"Say something," I say eventually, unable to cope with the tension. He doesn't, so I turn to him, a hard expression on my face.

"I'm not going to apologise if that's what you're looking for," I say sternly, "so don't expect it."

He isn't looking at me, and has the expression of a confused child. Suddenly I feel like that's who I'm talking to.

"Bane," I say, shuffling forward a little to the break between our cells, "are you really that horrified by a- a kiss? Am I really that horrific to you?"

"I- jeesh, you-"

"I what?!"

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters! You can't expect something like that to happen and then for me just to act like it didn't. I need you to talk to me, Bane."

"About what?!" He looked weak, frighteningly so. He seemed uncertain of where to look and kept rubbing his thumb back and forth with the palm of his other hand. I look at him, now uncertain myself.

"Well- did you hate it?"

"...No."

I feel a blush in my cheeks, but what would be the point in stopping now? He knows my feelings for him now, I've made those all to obvious.

"Did you like it?"

He stands up then, clearly too uncomfortable with the situation to continue. It's not a yes, but it's not a no either. And for now, I can accept that.

"I've been thinking," I tell him, allowing the conversation to veer into less awkward waters, "I want you to teach me how to fight."

He scoffs at that, and shakes his head.

"Well why not?!" I say, "I need to know how to fight, and after that whole thing with Nas-" I recoil as memories of his twisted corpse dance before my eyes- "It's clear I need to learn.

"That won't happen again," Bane says stoicly, and I fight to restrain my frustration.

"How do you know that?!" I say, standing up before him, "it happened once, it can-"

"It won't," he repeats, "I'm here now."

"You can't just say that," I tell him quietly, "I need to learn to stand on my own two feet, not have to rely on someone else to-"

"I've got better things to do with my time than prance about trying to teach you how to defend yourself."

"I don't want to learn how to defend myself, I want to learn how to kick someon's ass so hard they'll never think of coming within a mile radius of me ever again."

Bane laughs, then picks up the keys from the crate and walks past me, ready to go out and leave me all alone, again.

"Don't walk away from me!" I tell him angrily, as he sticks the key deep into the rusted lock. Infuriated that he's ignoring me, I take up a handful of straw and fling it at the back of his head. He brushes it off and fights again with the lock.

"Teach me!" I say, not caring that I must sound like a ratty six-year-old. I try grabbing the key from his hand and he grapples me away, unprepared as I pick up Bobby's Quran from the table to the side and smack Bane harshly around the back of the head with it. He jolts a second, stunned by the violent onslaught.

"Teach m-!"

Suddenly he whips around, grabs the stem of my hand tightly and smacks the book from my grasp. It lands face-down against the straw floor, pages rumpled as Bane stares hard at me, his brown eyes sharp with a vicious light. I stare hard back, unwilling to give in or apologise. I pull my hand away from him, but he holds it tightly in his grip, suspended just above my browline.

I struggle hard to think of some witty spark to throw in his direction, and just as my brain elects a rather suggestive one, he smacks his free hand around the back of my head and pulls my face up sharply to his, crashing his lips against my own. I stand rigid for what seems like a long time, before my confusion and shock begins to apparate and I start to feel completley relaxed, asthough this were the most natural thing in the world. I close my eyes, and just as my own lips are about to respond, Bane pulls away. His body eradicates all contact with my own and he stands with his back facing the cells, looking down at me like I'm some kind of unnatural being. Not long after that his expression completley numbs and he stares at me blankly, emotionally shut down.

I don't know what to say. Words seem like they would just be vulgar and inappropriate. so I just stand there, as useless as a water fountain at the bottom of the ocean. He fumbles for the keys, actually flushed with embarrassment.

"Sorry," he says quietly, and throws himself out of the cell again.

I brush my hand up against my mouth and smile.

**AN: i must apologize for how short it is and for having neglected 'Condemned' the past couple of weeks; I've been distracted by exams and my new Walking Dead story, 'Imprisoned', which I can't stop writing because I love it so much. TOO MANY BRAIN IDEAS!**

**_R&R, dem reviews keep me going! :D_**


	24. Chapter 24: The Fallen Boy

**Chapter 24:**

**The Fallen Boy**

That night I awake to a violent and sudden thud, followed by a wrenching scream. The sound splinters the ice-cold air and the eyes of all fly open, Andri springing to his feet like a cat awoken by the howl of a dog and springing his head against the bars.

"What's going on?" Bane asks in Arabic, himself fumbling from the sheets as the broken wails continue. The sound is brash, something like listening to a beast having its heart coved from its thick chest, like a thousand souls screaming to be free. As I stand against the bars in the dark, I see two figures; one is lying flat on his back, raveled in rags of fabric, the other bent low over him, the red of blood smothering his branched hands in the circling moonlight, which spotlights the scene like some cruel stage.

"It is the boys," Andri says, securing the key in the lock and opening up the door; he moves out of the door and stands at great distance to the scene. Others begin to emerge from their own doorways, all silent and watching, staying far from the two figures.

It is only then that I realize who Andri means by 'the boys'; Barsad and Firdos are the two, one curled over the body of the other, and it is not until I venture out to Andri's side in the moonlight that I realize which is which.

Barsad has his arms curled up under the body of Firdos, who is drenched from the torso down with red liquid, which seems to be flowing in a tepid river from the crook of his neck. Something in my chest falls, and I find myself saying, "Do something!"

"Too late," Andri merely says, shaking his head solemnly. "Far too late."

"You have to help, you're the doctor, for God's sake-!"

"Too late. The boy is dead."

Barsad lets out another sobbing howl, which reaches with desperate fingers up to the star-dogged moon. The moon looks back with pitiless eyes, blotting out its stars as the boy weeps for his dead friend.

"Akh," Barsad moans over and over, leaning down upon the face of the smaller boy, "Isme akh…"

Firdos' small head rolls back on his shoulders as Barsad shakes him desperately, exposing a thick vertical gash drawn across the throat of the boy, severing his fresh muscles and thick tendons. The prison lets out a sigh of shock, all men breathing at once, and Barsad screams, a sound like no other I've ever heard. It causes me to step forward, and I feel Bane's hand take hold of the back of my shirt; I squeeze it in my own and he lets go. I walk out, falling from the cloak of darkness and into the lambent light. Barsad's howls chill the air as I unconsciously move closer, bending the other side. Gently I reach out a hand and place it on Barsad's inverted shoulder, and he shoves me away roughly, causing me to stumble backwards. He screams something at me in such a flurry of Arabic I fail to understand it.

"Hell anni rooh bee'd!" He screams, "Hell anni!"

I shy backwards, and Barsad fights to breathe straight, wailing again as he draws the dead boy up in his arms, holding his bloodied corpse close to his chest, burying his head in Firdos' blood soaked clothes, his bones poking out at all ankles. Firdos' back looks to be shattered, by the way his body leans against Barsad's conformatively.

"Hell anni…"

I realize with a wrenching feeling that the hand which pushed me away has left a wet streak of Firdos' blood up my arm; I crawl backwards on my knees, a little more into the shadows, and stand close as Barsad wails. Bane says my name from somewhere close by and I feel his arm on mine as he pulls me back into the darkness.

"What's happened?" I ask, shaking with tears falling from my own eyes now, unable to think straight; all is silent apart from Barsad's incessant screams of rage and pain, and the docile whispers of our small group.

"It has happened before," Andri explains. "With new ones."

"What do you mean?" I ask, my voice choked.

"They must have seen the bodies ascend," Bane explains, his breath warm against my neck.

"When we sent up the corpses of Dandachi and Nas," Andri tells me. "They must have thought it a logical means of escape; poor, stupid fools."

"They tried to get out?" I char, holding onto Bane's arm like he is some sort of sanctuary; he doesn't pull away, although I can see the gesture does not leave him comfortable with the situation.

"The eldest would have tied up the younger and hauled him upwards to the surface; I suppose he would have asked the rope master to do the same for him in the morning."

"They should have been warned," Bane says. "I should have told them."

"Told them what?!" I ask, flustered and turned to stone by shock. This is unreal. Surely only a dream.

"The guards slit the throat of all the bodies taken up," Andri explained. "The boy must have reeled as they made to be sure he was dead; the guards slashed his throat and sent him back where he belongs."

Barsad wails again, clutching tightly to the deceased boy who was his closest friend.

"Perhaps it is kinder," Andri says quietly, no-one moving forwards to do anything; not to remove the body, not to console Barsad. "A boy of his disposition; I believe he would have become as the Sharmuta Walad."

"We ought to something," Bane says.

"No," Andri instructs, "let the boy grieve for his friend. Then later, we shall burn the body. Let him mourn."

The other men who have withdrawn from their cells to see the spectacle unfold have begun to shimmer back inside, perhaps unmoved or somehow displaced by the scene, one many of them have seen unfold before.

"Burn him?" I ask quietly. "Why?"

"The guards will not accept such a treachery twice," Andri answers. "They cast the boy back down; here he will remain forever. We shall have to burn him ourselves, and face the torture of it as punishment. So is the way of the pit."

"None can leave who do not climb," Bobby says quietly in broken English, stood behind the rest of us. "It is known."

"It is," Andri affirms. "Come- back inside. The night is not over; now is the time to sleep. Tomorrow we shall dance with the dead."

Bane touches the blood on my arm with light, firm fingers and bows his head.

"Come," he beckons, and the four of us turn slowly, walking in a procession back into the warmth of our grilled home, leaving the cleaved boy to choke his sorrows into the black earth.

_**AN: I am so, SO sorry it took so long for me to update. My mind has been in myriads of other places (coursework, my Walking Dead fic) and I was in a bit of writer's depression,**_**_ that combined with the fact i'd contracted a severe case of writer's block with simply how to format the story meant I was unfit to write in legitimate sentences_**_**. But then I bitch-slapped myself last night, read all your sparkly reviews of wonderment and WROTE. LIEK A BAWSS.**_

_**Thank you guys so much for reading, and I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, regardless of how short it is (My apologies). RIP Firdos- another character I loved, struck off and cast into the dust. Hope you, Dandachi and Nas are havin' a big ol' party up in OC heaven.**_

_**Excuse me a sec whilst I high five myself at updating all my fanfics in one night *high five***_

_**Please, PLEASE R&R, and I'll see you next time for another dose of 'Condemned!' xx**_


	25. Chapter 25: Redemption

**Chapter Twenty-Five:**

**Past**

It is the smell that wakes the prison. It drifts through the morning haze with an astringent glare, crawling up our nostrils and forcing every one to attention;

Meat.

The smell of burning flesh.

The smoke burns the lining of my throat, and I find that no matter where I turn it is inescapable. I look out of the cell bars to see that Andri is already out, stood beside a blazing make-shift funeral pyre- our wooden crate we have been using as a cabinet is gone from the cell, along with several other lightable objects- the pyre throws hot flames up the canal of the pit's entrance, reaching up to the slumberous sun before drifting onwards in small, grey wisps of smoke. Ash falls lightly in it's place, dancing white upon the smoked air and hovering like twisted snowflakes on the shoulders of those who have gathered to pay their respects, or perhaps just for something interesting to do. Barsad stands at the head of the funeral pyre, so close that his hessian clothes are beginning to singe black; Carrieveau moves to pull him backwards, but Barsad steps back into his place, watching the withered dark flesh melt from the bones of his closest, and perhaps only, friend. His expression is empty, his eyes sullen.

Behind me, Bane has roused; he stretches and pushes his sleeves back, moving through the cell and standing awkwardly beside me.

We still haven't addressed that second kiss- with everything that happened yesterday, there has seemed to be no time. I doubt he wants to address it; but it happened, and I need to know why. He kissed _me, _and I need to know what that means.

"Poor Firdos," I say tightly, my head lowered a little. "And Barsad... look at him. He's heart broken."

I look up at Bane and suggest carefully,

"Maybe you should try and talk to him."

Bane looks at me uncertainly, and I defend,

"Not, like,_ right now._ But just think- he's all alone, he hasn't got anyone anymore- I think you could help him. He needs you to help him."

Bane looks straight ahead coldly for a while, and I let him have his silence. I close my eyes and just listen to his breathing, trying to block out the sounds of the crackling fire and the dizzying whirl of the prison.

"I will go to them," Bane says, straightening his clothing and breathing in deeply. He moves forwards, and I notice something.

"Bane?" I alert him, and he pauses in the door, turning his head to me.

"There's blood on your shirt."

Bane looks down- a thick red smear is glazed into the hessian-like fabric, absorbed and blackened by the weight of the garb and the length of the night. I realize it must be Firdos', from when we stood beside each other last night, after Barsad had pushed me away with his blood soaked hands.

"Will you wash it for me," Bane asks, though it isn't quite enough to qualify as a question. I nod morosely, and he pulls the thing over his head; I marvel for a blunt moment at the sheer mass of him, somehow still lean through all the bulk and muscle, and he hands over the fabric. Bane slips from the door, back glistening with sweat in the burning sun as he walks over to the smolder of the funeral pyre, it's heat falling in waves and creating a haze over the mouth of the pit.

As Bane approaches Barsad's side, Andri turns and walks back towards the cell. I give my greetings to Bobby who has just woken up, and open the door for Andri to come back inside.

"The boy is lost," Andri says in Arabic, gesturing a hand over to Barsad.

"Why are they burning the body so early?" I ask, "surely we should have waited until it was evening- the sun is going to making it twice as bad as it could have been, and Barsad's got no privacy-"

"There is no privacy in the pit," Andri scolds me, "and there is good reason for burning the body at this time. There were whispers amongst some last night, long after you were asleep- they talked of eating the boy's body, as not to 'waste good meat'," Andri explains with a clear air of disgust. "This is why we shall see it burn now, before more start to loose their revulsion against the idea. The boy would not want to be cannibalized."

"That's sick," I say, holding my arms to myself tightly.

"Yes," Andri agrees. "This place makes sick men sicker, strong men stronger and weak men dead… I am no longer sure which of those suits me best."

I watch Andri, his handsome lines and his dark complexion, weathered skin taut as he frowns out at the embers of flame which now reduce bone to ash. This is a man who has known more hardships that someone like me could ever even consider, that I know. As I look at him, I realize he is an enigma to me. I do not know if he is a good man, a bad man, or simply neutral to everything, deadened emotionally by experience in the face of the realities of this harsh copper world. I know not whether to look up to him, to fear him or to pity him, but I know he would not accept anything resembling pity.

"I think you're a strong man," I say to him in my floundering attempt at Arabic, and he smiles at the effort. "'_Quaiyya'_ is strong," He corrects me, "not _'Ca-wia.'_"

I smile back at him, foiled by my own attempt at connecting.

"And what do you think of me?" I ask, feeling unusually open towards him. "Do you think me a sick, a strong or a weak man?"

Andri stares ahead, his eyes falling colder again.

"You are no man, Imi Dashur. Your fate is a mystery, even to me."

I wash the weak blood from Bane's shirt as the morning falters, and sing to myself as I work through more of the clothes which have been left. I argue with one costumer, who insists he paid when he delivered the clothes to be washed, and I explain to him that has never been the arrangement and that he will not see his clothes until he pays what he owes, which, by my records on the back's of Andri's old medical sheets, amounts to half a vial of hooch liquor. He calls me a bitch and tells me he'd rather have his alcohol than his clothes, anyway, then storms off in a fit.

"Idiot," I mumble under my breath, going back to working at the clothes.

Not long after another customer approaches the bars- a young, slender man with striking effeminate features, a clean shaven face and eyes like coal; he is immaculate compared to everyone else down here, including myself; though he moves quickly, as though he doesn't want to be seen. He has visited only once before, I remember, and that was some months ago. His thin hair falls past his shoulders and is braided to the side of his head tightly. Under his right eye I notice a faded purple-grey bruise, where knuckles can be seen imprinted into his dark skin- he doesn't strike me as the fighting type. I smile lightly at him, and we talk business for a few minutes before he quietly says in a voice like velvet,

"I am sorry about the boy."

I nod my head gratefully, thinking of Firdos; we were never close, it is true, but any relationship is to be mourned when I can establish so few down here in these pits.

"Heds!" Andri calls in his own language from Bobby's half of the cell, quickly reverting back to Arabic spoken so fast I can't understand it, but it's quite clearly hostile.

"Ibn haram, yakhereb beytak. Kekhri gahba, akroot yabdulh barboog, ya kwahl inta sharmoot. Heds,"

The man behind the bars says something quietly back, then hands me his payment timidly with a delicate call of thanks and shrugs away back the way he came, avoiding everyone in his path.

"What was that for?" I say sharply, seeing how wounded the other prisoner was by whatever it was Andri said to him.

"Don't concern yourself with that," Andri says darkly, wiping a hand over his thin mouth and frowning.

"Andri!" someone shouts up the hall sharply, and I raise my eyes to get a closer look, recognizing the voice as Bane's; he is shunting a slight figure- Barsad- forward, who is resisting weakly whilst jabbering away in unintelligible Arabic, flashes of red spattering the dirt floor as Bane forces him along by the tops of his arms.

"Oh god," I breathe, realizing that Barsad has slashed his wrists- the blood leaks from either arm like a macabre stream, and it takes Bane a good while to get him close enough to the cell; I open up the door in a hurry, hands still rung wet from the laundry, and Bane shoves him down on the bed. Barsad, hysterical from the loss of blood, continues to flay and jibber, tears of frustration and sheer hopelessness leaking from his ducts.

"What happened?" I gasp, hunting down the med supplies, though it is clear exactly what has happened.  
"I went to speak with him," Bane explains, "like you asked of me- when I got to his cell, this is what I found."

It takes me a few more moments to register that Andri had not moved; Bane demands that he does and the man rolls his eyes.

"Why save one who longs for an end?" he reasons, staying back from the bleeding Barsad, "the boy wished for death, and you would take it from him. He will see that as cruel. You think he will be happy to have recovered if I treat him?"

"You can't let him die, you're the doctor!" I reason, fumbling for the small amount of first aid products we have to hand while Bobby takes a firm hold of the boys bleeding wrists. Bane stands back a little, a stern expression knotted into his face.

"He will only do it again," Andri reasons, telling Bobby the same in Arabic, "and will most likely succeed- why waste bandages on a patient who does not want to be healed?"

Bobby says something to Andri which makes his cold expression falter, Swallowing hard, Andri moves forwards, muttering under his breath, and unrolled a leaf of bandage. He lifted one of Barsad's wrists and said,

"Bane, hold him. I cannot work if he is flaying about so much-"

"I'll knock him out-"

"No, he has lost a lot of blood; he might not wake back up again, not that that would sadden the boy- keep his wrists elevated, like this," he tells me, and I hold them both.

"Stupid boy was not clever enough to cut vertically," Andri tells us, "so the flow is not as extreme as it might have been- secure the bandage. When the outer cloth starts to turn red, remove it and replace it. Keep firm pressure. I am going to fetch more water."

Andri disappears to the bathroom for a few minutes, filtering the water quickly and returning with it. Barsad has begun to moan, and Andri orders Bane to keep him still as he starts to clean the wounds; the blood seems to clot considerably after a few repeats of this cycle, and eventually Andri gives the all clear for us to make the final bandage. The procedure is swift, and not long after Barsad is allowed to sleep undisturbed.

"Fool of a boy," Andri delivers, shaking his head, as Bane leaves to wash the blood from his torso.

"You can't blame him," I say to Andri, "he's lost so much- look at him. He's-"

"-Pathetic."

"-broken."

We say it at the same time.

"He has nothing left," I continue to defend, "he has lost-"

"He is no different to you or I," Andri argues. "All of us here have lost. What do any of us have left?"

I watch him, and say slowly,

"We have our lives."

Andri scoffs, looking across at me suddenly. "Life? What is the worth of life. Life is what a person claims to have when they have been stripped bare of everything... Look at this boy and you will see just how much life is worth."

I watch Barsad's heavily breathing form, feeling a cold sadness in my heart. I look over to the funeral pyre, which still smokes faintly although there is barely anything left, and look up to the burning sky above, turned blue by the cool of evening.

"Bane should had left him to die," Andri says coldly, throwing his head back.

I remember my first day down here, that terrifying day when I was thrown down into this pit, and reminisce. Where would_ I_ be, without Bane? It doesn't bare thinking.

"He never told me why," I say to Andri quietly. "Why he saved me."

"Would you call it saved?" Andri muses, biting away a loose roll of bandage as he packs away the menial supply of medical gear.

"I would," I tell him. "Better this than- than what could have happened."

"What _would_ have happened," Andri corrects, closing the wicker box. "You value you life more than many who have been thrown down here."

"Do you know why?" I ask Andri, wanting nothing but honesty from him. It is a question I have tried to ask Bane many times, but I feel I would never get an answer from him, with all his pride and his distance.

Andri looks over at me, ready to tell his tale.

"Before you," he begins in a drawling voice which grates on the smoke-filled air, "there was a woman."

I stare at Andri, startled. He has told me this before- that I was not the first- but_ a_ woman? Something about it felt threatening, and I feel an unwanted flounder of red jealousy curl deep within me.

"Eastern European, from the country across from my own. Beautiful and dark-haired. Her name was Molina."

I nod, taking it in.

"She was a prostitute by trade," Andri went on, "sent down here to silence her mouth. You see, she was the mistress the royals' son. She had threatened to tell his wife and the newspapers of their affair; It would have caused a scandal their monarchy could not afford, not with mistrust rife amongst them already. So he got rid of her in the cruelest way possible; condemning her to a life down here, a single woman amongst many men. Much like you."

Andri shifts a little on the bed.

"She kept to her trade," he tells me, "and she lived well for it, as well as a person could possibly hope to live in such a place as this; it is amazing all the wonders a woman can receive if she is willing to open her legs. But these men grew tired of waiting, of compromising, and of most of all, the paying. One day a group of them ravaged her beyond repair, and broke their toy. The woman died even before Bobby could try to treat her- this was only two years before you came, and the old man's sight had not yet deteriorated."

I take this in, eyes wide in horror mixed with disbelief. _Poor woman, _I think, imagining her fear; would she have known she was dying? To think of it is unbearable.

"...and Bane?" I ask, not yet sure how he fits in.

I fear...

I fear Andri will say he loved her. I do not know if I could hear those words.

"He may have used her services," Andri muses, "he may have not. For you see, Bane then was not the man you see today- he was a boy, shy and uncertain. He was not unlike Firdos, though how many years he had been down here already I cannot say; I did not even know of his existence until the Sharmuta woman was killed."

I listen intently, hanging on to each of Andri's words. The idea of Bane being anything like the timid Firdos seems unfathomable; his strength and willpower now indoctrinated in me, his erratic desires and his angst. The idea of him being near another woman is even worse.

"They say he saw it happen, and did nothing," Andri goes on, "though it would take a braver man than I to ask him if that is true. They say that is the reason he became how he is; guilt ate away at him and he turned his guilt into strength, his strength into skill, and his skill into fighting. I only met him as he began to wait outside my door for wounds to be cleaned or splices to be stitched, which became often, as in the beginning he was no master of fight. He carved for himself a chiseled man from the ashes of that cowardly boy who watched the Sharmuta be torn apart."

"And that's why he saved me," I say bluntly, the revelation sweeping over me. "Guilt."

"No," Andri says. "Not guilt. Redemption."

Andri looks out of the cell doors, where Bane can now be seen returning up the far corridor.

"You are his redemption."

** AN: Building up Bane's back story makes me happy :D**

**GUESS WHAT?! We hit_ 100 FOLLOWERS!_ Same week I hit 50 on my second fic, tears of joy :')**

******Thanks for all your support guys! Please review if you liked this chapter, they keep me going XD**


	26. Chapter 26: Death Wish

**Chapter Twenty-Six:**

**Death Wish**

I sit beside Barsad for the next few hours, watching as he drifts in and out of sleep. When he wakes, he cries, stifled shrieks of human despair that ring through the cell- Andri grows angry with him the third time it happens, roaring some obceinity or other in his home tongue before taking up the key to the cell's enterance and abruptly leaving me alone in the cell with the inconsolable boy.

I watch Bobby for a while, his thinning head of dark silver hair made radiant by the glow of the peppered eastern sun. He has his legs pulled up beneath him on his chair, and seems, as always, to be simply watching the prison pass by; I don't believe I have ever met a person so content in all my life, and doubt I ever will; after all, tradition would have it said that I am to die down here, and there are a very limited number of people here to manifest an interest in. The thought of living the rest of my life out down here is one I try ruthlessly hard to supress, as every time I so much as consider it I suddenly feel as though the world is caving in around me, asthough the dirt floor beneath me is eroding suddenly beneath my feet.

Then the howls of the tormented boy beside me bring me back to the solid earth beneath my feet and I feel I have some purpose returned.

Barsad says something quietly, so quietly I don't catch it at first. I ask him to repeat it, and he says to me in his home tongue,

"Kill me."

My breath catches somewhere in my chest and I feel a jolt similar to the falling feeling when you wake too suddenly. I raise a wet cloth to his clammy forehead and press it there, attempting comfort.

"I want to die."

"Don't say that," I attempt, though i'm not sure if I've said it correctly. Barsad shakes his head wearily, defiantly, and brings one of his bandaged wrists up to where i have laid the cloth. he moves my hand away from him, and squeezes it a little.

"Please. I want to go now."

I don't know how to respond to that; I feel nothing but pity for him. He really does want to die, I see that now- Firdos was his last thread of hope, and watching his friend mercilessly slaughtered, holding his red body in his own hands, had destroyed him. But perhaps, with time, he will start to heal- maybe there are fragments which can still be resurrected.

"Drink," I say to him, dribbling water over his swollen lips. He lets the liquid run down his throat with little enthuse, eyes closed and swollen red with anguish.

"You must rest," I try, and he makes no sign of even hearing me. He lies back heavily, the energy seemingly zapped from his bones.

I stand up in a vain effort to clear my head, and move through to the opposing side of the cell, taking Andri and Bobby's knives with me as a precaution. I place them on the bunk of the first cot and sit down besides the small bundle of clothing which still needs to be washed, my head in my hands.

I haven't seen Bane since he retreated out of the cell this morning once Barsad was bandaged and moderately settled. He has disappeared again, and it is not until I hear someone passing by the cell mention his name as they talk to another inmate about a fight this morning that I realize that's where he's been- out fighting, somewhere in the higher levels of the prison. Annoyance splurges inside me, and I pull hard on the fabric in my hands, misshaping it's neckline a little; I curse myself, hoping it's owner won't notice, and throw it to the side of the room, muttering to myself under my breath.

If he has been fighting again- which I'm pretty certain of- it's the first time since his fight with Dandachi. The thin line of scabbing is still imprinted on his hard face, I remember, and the skin around his stab wound is still tender and flushed permanently pink. Andri will know about it by now for sure, and I have little doubt he'd have already scolded Bane on the issue. He can't be hurt- if he was, he'd have appeared outside our cell in search of medical assistance. People seemed to be more willing to accept Andri and Bobby's help since learning of the cause of Dandachi's death, and more were appearing at the bars when sliced and grazed in fights; no one wanted to die of infection. Dandachi's death, if anything good had been achieved from it, had at least learnt the other fighters a lesson- Dandachi was powerful and perhaps the strongest of the men locked down here, and his death at the hands of bacteria had proved to them that even the mighty can fall. No man down here wanted that; If they were to die, let it be in battle.

I start folding up the dry clothes, assembling them into piles according to who they belong to; I find a shirt of Firdos' there, and fold it away sadly, placing it at the end of the bed where Barsad resides; the the boy is now asleep. Perhaps it ought to have been burnt along with his body; fearing it might be triggering, I pick the shirt back up and place it underneath Bane's cot out of sight.

"Hello," A voice says in Arabic from behind me, and I turn to look out of the bars.

There stands the man who delivered his clothes earlier this morning- _No rest for the wicked,_ I think to myself with a raised brow, glad that the clothes are already dry. he seems uneasy being out, and the dark fist-shaped bruise beneath his dark eye seems more irritated than it was earlier. I smile politely at him as I gather up his clothing, re-folding it to be sure it is presentable.

With thanks he takes the garments, and rifles through them.

"I think there was another shirt," He says unsurely, counting through the fabrics. I frown, moving to collect my records; I read down them and find what I assume is his name- "Hadi?" I ask, and he nods in affirmation.

"You're right," I say with a frown, reading what I've recorded- three shirts and a pair of bottoms. I rifle through the other clothes in the pile, seeing if I have forgotten it, but it is no where to be found. Apologizing profusely and a little flustered through annoyance at myself, I continue to search the cell. He is patient and suffers the charade with a smile on his smart features, but the silence is awkward.

"How is the boy?" He asks, and I struggle with a moment to find the appropriate phrase to return- my ability to understand Arabic has increased dramatically compared with my ability to speak it.

"Better," I manage eventually, though this hardly seems in depth enough a response. "His pain is less," I conclude, my repertoire of Arabic still too limited to come up with anything more substantial.

"But he still suffers," the costumer points out; though he fakes halcyon, it is clear that he is becoming more and more weary of his surroundings, face lowered and pressed close to the bars as though he fears someone might notice him.

"Are you alright?" I ask with genuine concern, remembering how Andri had treated him earlier- what could be so terrible about this small individual to render such a hatred amongst the other prisoners?

The man nods, his fingers clutched around the hem of his dark oiled braid. His nails dig deep into the threads of hair and he smiles up at me again.

"I can't find it," I say, slipping back into English for a moment. Hopeless though it is, I can't afford to refund this man- it just so happens that Andri has already drunk away his payment, a quart of hooch alcohol. I wonder how someone so slight came to be in possession of something so precious down here- alcohol and meat were the gold of the pit, and I doubt he's secured it by fighting.

"Perhaps… perhaps you ought come back tomorrow? Sorry about this- I'll look around again, and if I can't find it…"  
The man and he nods quickly, clearly in a hurry just to get out of here. He claps me a quick smile and turns sharply, slinking down through the corridor- on the way he dashes straight into Bane, who is coming up the corridor with a hard expression. Bane looks down coldly at the slight man, who jabbles a stream of apologies as he slips past with his head bowed, scuffling up an isle of stairs and away down one of the curved higher corridors. Bane spits on the ground with a look of disgust, and clears back up to the outside of our cells.

"What was that?" I ask, confused again by the prisons reactions to the slender young man who seems to tiptoe around in fear of his own shadow.

"What was what?"

"That, there," I say, "you looked at him like he was the devil. Andri was like it with him earlier… what has he done?"

"It's not what he's done, It's what he does," Bane growls thickly; it is then that I notice the cut on his shoulder.

"You've started fighting again, then, so I've heard."

Bane averts my gaze, his eyes on the bandages around his wrists which he is now unwrapping.

"Jesus, Bane," I scold, seeing the blood which is glazed upon his dark knuckles. I grab hold of his hand like a mother whose child has scuffed his knee and inspecting it.

"Sit down," I direct him, and he dismisses me, but I'm having none of it. I push him down by the shoulders so that he sits on the end of the bunk closest to the door and move through to the cell where Barsad sleeps, taking up the bowl of water beside him and bringing it through to Bane, along with the disgarded cloth.

"Why have you even started again?" I say, displacing the fabric of his shirt to get a proper look at the cut there, "haven't you had enough after what happened with Dandachi? He ended up dead. All that because the two of you-"

"He stabbed me," Bane says with a blunt finality, as though that alone meant he ought to die. I remember the scarring up Dandachi's body from the fire that Bane started years ago in his ignorance, remember that the feud shared between the two was not one sided or without cause, and shake my head.

"And he saved me," I say. "You expect me to hate him as much as you did, but how could I? He saved me, Bane. We both know what would have happened if he hadn't been there-"

"Don't talk like that-"

"But it's true, Bane, listen to me. If Dandachi hadn't been there Nas would have- he would have raped me. Maybe killed me, too."

"And you are blaming me, for not being there?!"

"No," I say, horrified, "No, of course I'm not! You- you were sick, you couldn't possibly have…"

I look at his face, and see he has averted his eyes, hard gaze now on the compact dirt floor, and realize something. He blames _himself._

"Oh God, Bane. Don't feel guilty about it. Please don't blame yourself."

I can see by his face that all the words in the world could stir him from what he has convinced himself of- that it should have been him in there that snapped Nas' neck, that he should have been the one to come to my rescue. _Again._

I press the cold water against Bane's bloodied knuckles and watch it run between his large fingers, making glistening trails over his taught skin.

"_I _should have saved you," he tells me, and the words fall from his mouth raw and with anguish.

"You did save me," I tell him gently, and place a hand over his own wet paw.

I look up at him, and in that moment we are the only people in the world.

"Andri told me why," I say him, as another person intrudes on our silent moment. Bane looks at me, confused, eyebrows lowered on his intense face above those dark, weary eyes.

"He told me about Molina," I say, and Bane's whole body physically writhes, his shoulders rolling back in what I can only describe as horror; the name seems to have done something to him, awakening a past he has tried so intensely to suppress. His eyes are wide, filled with something I cannot recognize, and although he looks at me I doubt he sees anything but his own reflection in the glaze of my lenses.

"It's alright," I say comfortingly, seeing how much it has affected him; It scares me a little, seeing him like this. I imagine his life flashing before his eyes, every regret and hidden emotion, and remember Andri's words;

_You are his redemption._

I squeeze tighter to his hand and tentatively ask,

"...Did you love her?"

Bane lowers his head. My muscles clench in my chest and for a heartbreaking moment I feel empty.

"I didn't... know that woman," he says, and shakes his heavy head. "She was just a whore."

I watch him carefully, waiting for him to speak.

"But I let her die. They tore her apart, that woman." He seems unable to say her name.

I take a sharp breath in, keeping my grip firm on his hand, avoiding his bloody knuckles. I take my other hand up to the side of his face and hold my fingers against his skin gently. He closes his eyes, exhaling audibly, and brings his unclean hand over my own, holding it there like some sort of talisman.

"Molina," he breathes in a choked, pale voice, like the word is new to his tongue. I stroke his face, an ache in my chest and tears in my eyes at seeing him this way, in so much pain that I cannot soothe.

I sit in silence as he shudders a cold breath.

~oOo~

**AN: Hi guys, hope you enjoyed this chapter of 'Condemned'! Hello to all the new followers, and a big thank y****ou to those of you who left reviews, it means the world, really brightens up my day :)**

**A couple of questions for you delightful little (or big) readers:**

**1) I'd REALLY appreciate it if you could let me know on this one- I was discussing the fact that our girl doesn't have a name- which do you guys prefer- with or without a name? (Personally I like the ambiguity, but then again, I am a self confessed weirdo XD)**

**2) and who is you're favorite character/s in this story so far, and why (excluding Bane, because we all love Bane- why else would we be here? XD)? Be they dead or alive, good or bad... who's your fave/s? **

**And to our reviewer _Tamar_ (if you're reading, fingers crossed) thank you SO MUCH for your offer! I would absolutely love to get in touch with you over proof reading- i bow down to your kindness :')**

**And so, my sweets, Arrivederci until chapter 26! If anyone has any questions, etc, please feel free to ask- If you're a guest or it's a topic I feel I should clear up with everyone (wink wink Crimsin Butterfly ;D) I'll answer it in the next Authors Note, if not, I'll PM you :)**

**All the best,**

**Wizadora xx**


	27. Chapter 27: Hierarchy

**Chapter Twenty-Seven:**

**Hierarchy**

Over the next three weeks, Bane establishes a sort of obsession with his fighting routine. At the end of the month, He is taking on two fights a day. More often than not he comes back to us webbed with a map of lacerations and contusions over the length of his body, cuts and bruises which weave delicate patterns into his hard leather skin. He sleeps long hours and eats more than double what we'd usually have, not that we can't afford it. He pays his way with the winnings, disappearing to the cook's block in the early hours and bargaining his way to the best food with hooch alcohol.

He risks a lot by watering the booze down to within an inch of being able to still be classed as alcohol, but so far the tactic hasn't failed. On the fourth week of his warrior crusade, the four of us sit on our cots eating away at the fruits of Bane's labor. He haggled the cook down and managed to get the very last of the meat from last month's drop off, which has been dried into a rough jerky, and a halve of preserved apricots, diced up and mixed with the rice. The apricots add a peculiar taste to the mess, but after almost two weeks of nothing but dried oats mixed with water, everyone is grateful beyond words.

"See?" Bane muses pointedly, his shirt off so that the small scratches may breathe, "you complain about my fighting, but you are all too keen to have me share my spoils."

I attempt a pointed scowl at the verbal trap he laid with that comment, but think better of it and decide to laugh it off. "Well, the profits are delicious," I admit with a smile. "But I still don't see why you've gone back into the fights. You could get hurt again, Bane."

"I'm getting better," Bane argues, referring to his fighting skill, "more than better. I haven't lost a fight in over a week."

"And look what it did to you," Andri charts, swaying a finger in the direction of Bane's chest, to a particularly wide rupture just above his abdominal muscles.

"That fight was rigged," Bane says, "I wouldn't have lost if it hadn't been for the booker taking br-"

"It was not rigged," Andri scolds him, "Carriveau is bigger than you, stronger, and that is why he won."

I smile over at Andri- Bane looks for a moment like a stubborn child, lip pouting as he refuses to believe there could be any fault in his own skill.

"The damage would have been worse if the two of you were not on good terms with each other. You are not invincible, my boy, that you must remember."

"I'm getting better," Bane repeats, straightening himself. "Next time, I will beat him."

"Confidence is a killer," Andri admonishes from his seat.

"Confidence is a winner," Bane rebukes, affronted by Andri's interjection. "I win, and we all benefit from it- the cook is expecting another drop-off in a couple of days, you've seen how riled the fights get around that time. We could be eating like this for the next week if I go up against the bigger players."

"Or we could be sending you up over the mouth of the pit, wrapped in funeral blankets," Andri told him, unwilling to let Bane's stubbornness pass unchecked. "A thousand times I tell you, Budalla. No good comes from these fights."

"Except for the food in your belly," Bane growls, then quieter, eyes lowered, "and respect."

The group stiffens, all hearing the subtle afterthought. Andri rolls his head against the back of his neck, eyes hardened as he looks over at Bane.

"Ah, now the boy tells me he fights for respect," Andri barks with a sardonic fervour. "Well, respect is always afforded to the dead, I suppose. You may yet succeed there."

"Don't say things like that," I scold hastily, lowering my head a little as a blush rides to my cheeks.

Andri rolls his shoulders indifferently with a suck of his teeth, thin lips puckered. He places the dish in his hands on the floor beside his cot and moves through to the second cell. "I'll check on the boy."

The boy is Barsad, who still refuses to eat. He has become so thin and brittle since the death of Firdos that I'm amazed he even has the strength to shake his head in denial; _When he comes back to his senses, we shall send him back to his own cell, _Andri had said after the first week of caring for him, but it seems he may never recover. The grief over the traumatic death of his friend seems all-consuming. He lies still day and night, staring up into the ceiling of the dusky cell room with glazed, unseeing eyes.

Much to everyone's surprise he has not attempted to commit suicide again. Andri rouses early each morning to check on him despite having proclaimed that allowing him to live had been the wrong thing to do, and that Bane ought be ashamed for deciding such a thing for the boy. To my silent joy it seems his medicinal instinct to care and repair has overridden his cold logic center when it comes to Barsad- he places a cold cloth against the boys forehead to try and bring him back to an alert state. Barsad refuses the comfort.

"At least drink, Budalla," Andri berates Barsad in Arabic, raising a cup of water to the boy's mouth. Barsad watches the glass with dim awareness, apathetic to the dire need his body surely screams, and takes a gulp of the liquid.

Bane watches from the corner of one of his dark eyes, frowning at the boy. "He must get well soon," he points out stoically. "He cannot go on living off the backs of our care like some sort of pet. Drinking our water and eating our food… my food."

"He doesn't eat your food," I say scoldingly. "He barely eats at all. We have to… we have to give him time," I say uncertainly, hoping against hope that I'm right. "Firdos was his best friend- more brother than friend. Can you imagine watching that happen to the person you care about most?"

Bane watches me, and for a moment I wonder if it's me he's thinking of. I know I'm thinking of him.

"...I'm surprised he's not worse," I continue. "I know I would be."

I blush harshly, unsure whether or not he caught my meaning.

"He'll be well again... eventually."

"When he is," Bane decides quickly, a frown still imbedded on his sun-baked face, "I will teach him to fight. He will need to know how. The boy is small and thin… People will trample over him if he doesn't learn."

I swallow hard, and say what the both of us are thinking.

"Like Firdos," I choke blankly, the words hard to speak. Suddenly I think of myself, of my own weakness, and look up at him again.

"You were supposed to teach me how to fight," I remind him, thinking back on that day when he'd kissed me. We still haven't addressed the matter, what with everything that's happened over the last few weeks. There has hardly seemed time for such trivial pursuits.

"I seem to remember not having agreed to that," Bane growls coldly, with a sharpness that hurts like a tangible thing, not as forceful as a hit but sharp enough to be a slap. I remember how he reacted when the idea was posed, laughing at me like my idea was preposterous and not even to be considered. He brushed me off like a child.

"I don't understand why," I growl right back, annoyed with him at this point. "Surely you can see the benefits in me learning some skills, at least- I've been down here, what- almost a year? I've barely been out of these cells. It's driving me crazy, having nothing to do but wash clothes, count days, and wait for you to come back worse off than the day before. Do you _want_ to keep me weak?"

Bane bristles, eyes darkening. Something in me flares up in warning, and I find myself shying back a little. He takes a breath to attempt to keep calm and speaks slowly.

"Even if I did teach you," he begins through half-gritted teeth, "you still would not be able to leave this cell. Every single one of these men are stronger than you by sheer size, not to mention numbers- no amount fighting skill I or anyone else could teach would be able to change that." A foreign look crawled over his face for a brief second, pulling his features into a strained expression. "It would not be just one man, like it was with him... with… Nas." He seems to struggle to say the name, the muscles in his broad neck straining. "You are the only woman here. You understand what that means."

I remember Molina and how Bane had reacted to the very mention of her name.

"Of course I understand," I sigh, unable to keep the despair out of my voice. My voice gathers a desperate, almost needy tone. "But I can't stay in this room forever, Bane. Even if you'd just let me come out with you sometimes, I would be fine. You can't keep me locked up here like your pet bird, sat in a steel cage until I keel over and die. I have needs that don't just stop at- at washing dirty clothes and watching desperate men clamour for freedom in this God-forsaken place" I trail off momentarily, remembering things that I shouldn't. "I want to be free. You understand that, don't you?"

Bane hardens at my words, looking out of the cell bars to the broad wall. Until now, I hadn't noticed the chanting that was swelling in the prison. A man, perhaps in his late twenties, is preparing to make the climb. The rope master ties the grip around his waist and he starts off up the wall.

"We will never be free," Bane says through tight lips, then closes his eyes and looks down into his lap. One of his hands reaches up to caress one the wider cut across his chest absently, the one Andri pointed out to him.

"Aren't you going to watch?" I ask him, standing and leaning up against the outer bars as the man makes progress up the rough wall.

"There is no need to watch," Bane laughs with palpable distaste. The sound is full of defeat, which I note is unlike him. "We all know how it ends."

Sure enough, Bane is right; as the man reaches the midway point, a large chunk of sandstone loosens itself from the wall, causing the climber to lose his footing. The man flails desperately for another foothold but his hands slip and he falls. The rope snaps harshly at his weight, sending him head-first into the smooth stone wall, causing him to fall into unconsciousness. The pressure of the tug and subsequent impact of his body sends an audible twang and crunch reverberating back to the prisoners below, leaving the man hanging limply in mid-air.

There is a mutual sigh amongst the spectators, some sort of momentary false hope diminished, and the rope master begins to unenthusiastically reel the failed climber back to ground level. His bleeding face lies flat against the dusty ground, dirt coagulating into his wound. "I shall have to clean that," Andri complains from the other cell, his hand outstretched; I look back at him to see that he is gesturing out to the unconscious man. I frown and turn back to watch as the rope master unwinds the harness from the fallen man's waist, then digs his hands into the pockets of the man, taking more than his fair payment for his services. The rope master counts his earnings then tucks them away under the hessian of his shirt, leaning up against the compact stone wall.

"I will teach you how to fight," Bane tells me firmly, jarring my attention back into our cell. "But on the condition that once it has been done, you will not pester me about such matters again. I will teach you to defend yourself, but nothing more. When you are relatively competent, I'll accompany you out of the cells. "

"Alright," I agree. The prospect of learning these new skills, of actually being able to move freely (albeit with Bane at my side) excites me, and I can feel a surge of repressed adrenaline begin to sing through my stunted veins. The sensation makes me want to run, to smash something, to fly. I smile widely at Bane with a vigour I haven't felt since before my imprisonment here, and see him try to hide a wry smile at my reaction.

"When do we start?" I ask enthusiastically, energy high. He gives no indication of his intent, but the swipe of his fist at my face tells me plenty. I grab his knuckles firmly with one hand, almost by instinct, putting pressure on his balled fist to stop him. Bane smirks knowingly.

"Now," he instructs, and my Cheshire grin broadens with excitement.

**~oOo~**

"Faster!" Bane barks, unimpressed with my current output. We've been at this for what feels like hours now, my attempts to land blows to his outstretched and open palms unsuccessful; No matter how hard I push myself, he still presses down on me with the same command. With Andri and bobby gone, only the docile Barsad still occupying the cells with us, Bane seems a little more care-free.

"Faster," he repeats, a little cooler this time. I mean back a moment, trying to regain my breath.

"You keep saying that," I balk, chest falling heavily as I clutch at the bunched muscles which plague my right side with a stinging, persistent pain, "but I don't think it's gonna happen."

"It has to happen," Bane taunts me. "At the moment, you are useless. A tortoise could throw faster punches, never mind your lack of power. You punch like a girl."

The insult is the peak of irony. "There's a reason for that," I breathe, tying back the loose threads of my hair with tight, tired fingers. My knuckles ache in protest from the abuse, but we're not done yet. I've got something to prove here. _I'm not as weak as he thinks,_ I tell myself, exhaling shortly through my nostrils and raising my eyebrows up quickly at him.

"Come on then," I call to him sharply, rolling my fists in preparation for another round.

"If you say so," Bane says hotly. "Quickly, now. One-two-three, one-two-three..."

I follow his instructions and grunt in frustration as he begins walking backwards, hopping from foot to foot in an attempt to make my task more difficult.

"Move yourself!" He barks with a laugh, enjoying how hard I'm finding the task.

His jabs to my pride are well placed, spurring me on through sheer pig-headed persistence. "Shut your face!" I tell him quickly, my annoyance fuelling each hit with more power.

"Make me," Bane teases, raising his hands higher. I lash out with another balled fist and land an ill-placed punch that skims off the heel of his hand and strikes him square in the jaw.

The impact was so abrupt it took me a second to realize I'd actually hit him! "Sorry!" I apologize quickly, pulling my hand away from him. He rolls his head side to side, letting the clicks of bones popping adjust from the hit.

He looks at me with a slight smirk and says, "That's more like it."

"Are you alright?" I ask carefully, and he laughs again.

"I've taken more than a punch in the jaw, least of all by someone with as little muscle as you," he jibes, gesturing to the sprawling length of injuries seared across his bare flesh. He grabs me about the upper arm and squeezes fondly, "I'm sure I'll be fine."

I can't help but smile up at him and reach my hand up to the side of his face, which is flared red from the force of my accidental assault. "We'll see about that when I'm finished with you," I grin wryly, jabbing my other fist quickly in his direction. The attack was easily seen and he leans back, catching my knuckles in the palm of his hand.

"Close," he taunts with a wicked grin, squeezing my hand in his grip. He stares at me for a long moment, letting the silence pass. "But not close enough."

"Oh, yeah?" I say, and with a slow, undeniable urgency, through the adrenaline and the exhaustion, his hand finds the back of my head and we kiss. A deep, fluttering longing flips inside me, borne of the lingering nature of the embrace. This time it is not rushed, not forced or unexpected… It feels right. As if this is how things should have been all along.

And when Bane pulls away, it is with no air of embarrassment. No uncomfortable, hard gaze or stiff defiance, no urgency to escape into the heat of the darkening prison. He holds me there a moment, watching my eyes with an uncertain stare, but a smile on his face. He loosens his grip on my hand and I let my hand fall from the side of his face.

"I'll teach you some more tomorrow," he says, and I notice a small, almost flustered quality to his rough tones. "We'll try some more offensive tactics when you get a little better; pressure points, blocking, using joints to your-"

"You don't have to talk," I tell him with a smile, realizing he's just trying to fill the awkwardness he's experiencing. He opens his mouth to speak, jaw hanging for a second, then just smiles.

"Sorry."

"You don't have to apologize either," I rebuke him gently, smiling as I move back through to my own cell. "See you in the morning."

"See you in the morning," he repeats back to me, standing still asthough he's unsure what to do. I close the door between the two cells, smile at him and prompt,

"Goodnight."

I lie down on my cot, and hear him doing the same in his own room; I pull the heavy hessian blanket over my head, close my eyes and smile.

**AN: Hey guys, thanks for reading, and thanks for your responses to the questions posed in the last chapter! **

**When the story's finished (which is still a long way off, mind- I still have alot of plans for Condemned), I was thinking of creating a PDF/word download of the story, set out all fancy without all the authors notes, etc, that you guys have to deal with at the moment. Let me know if you'd be interested, and if so, I'll upload it to my DeviantArt (#Shazammize) when it's finished :)**

**Please review, guys, and I'll look forward to seeing you again next time! :D xxx**


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